Standoff
by Serialgal
Summary: Don, Charlie and the team are held hostage by a radical antigovernment group. Rated T for some violence and bad language. Episodic fic.
1. Chapter 1

Synopsis – Don, Charlie and the team are held hostage by a radical anti-government group. Rated T for some violence and implied bad language.

Disclaimer – I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, although I do claim the story concept and any OC's . I do not expect to profit from this story. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story.

Many thanks to betas dHall, and especially, Alice I.

**Chapter 1**

Don slammed the door of his car and plodded wearily up the walk to his brother's house. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon – the sunshine poured golden from the sky and a gentle breeze ruffled the shrubs near the house. "Too bad I missed it," Don muttered. "And the rest of the weekend, for that matter." He opened the front door, poking his head in long enough to yell "Is anybody home?" and followed it in when he heard a voice from the dining room, which was unintelligible over the din of the game on the television.

Don ambled into the dining room, where his brother Charlie was immersed in a virtual mountain of papers, pounding on his laptop. Charlie looked up with a smile when he saw Don, but the smile wavered a bit when he took a good look at his brother's face. "Hey, Don, you look beat." The grin returned with a hint of mischief. "Up a little too late last night?"

"Yeah, but not the way you think," Don growled, but with a hint of a smile of his own. His brother's house was always a haven, and it felt particularly welcoming today. Don was looking forward to a cold beer, maybe a little ballgame, and if he was really lucky, Dad was cooking tonight. He strolled into the kitchen, ignoring Charlie's questioning glance, and was rewarded with the sight of his father puttering with something that looked like steaks and vegetables.

"Hey, look what showed up!" His dad's face creased in a grin. "You can stay for dinner, I hope. I have enough for a small army."

"Yeah, I was kind of hoping you'd say that," Don said as he examined the contents of the refrigerator. He pulled out a beer. His father looked at him intently, picking up the lines of fatigue in his face.

"Rough night last night?" he asked, as Charlie drifted into the kitchen and leaned against the doorway.

"You could say that. We got called out on a couple of shootings last night. Gang stuff, maybe drug related. I just got off."

"Shootings?" Both his father and Charlie spoke at once, with identical slightly worried looks, and the stereo effect made Don smile.

"Relax; the shootings were over long before we got there. Two kids weren't so lucky, though. There's a possible turf war over drug territory – we pounded out leads all day today, and right now all I want is a sofa, a cold one and some mindlessness in front of the television."

Charlie grinned. "You're in the right place." He turned and headed back to his paperwork. Don started for the living room, but his father's quiet voice stopped him.

"Hey, uh, Don, this case – this isn't what Charlie is working on, is it?"

"Charlie's not working on anything for us right now, Dad. We finished up the case he was helping us with last week – it had to do with money laundering."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "You'd better tell him that – I think he's still working on it."

Don shrugged and sauntered out to the sofa. He didn't want to embarrass his dad by telling him he was mistaken. They had finished and closed out that case late last week – thankfully, he thought, because the new case was definitely going to eat up some manpower. He glanced sideways at Charlie as he passed. Charlie was oblivious to his surroundings, his dark head bent over his papers, scribbling. "Probably school stuff," thought Don, and plopped on the sofa, intent on drowning out any coherent memory of work in the ballgame.

Charlie frowned at the papers in front of him, playing with his pen. There was something there, just out of reach. "What am I missing?" he wondered. His father bustled into the room broke his train of thought, which, he had to admit, was stalled at the moment anyway. Alan started moving paperwork off of the table, causing a moment of mild consternation. Charlie hated for anyone to touch his work. "Whoa, wait, Dad! Don't touch that – I'll get it."

"Just chill out – these are bills, Charlie. I'm not touching your paperwork. You need to get that stuff off of the table though; I need to set it. And you need to start the grill."

Charlie sighed, got up from the table and stretched. Alan's last statement had gotten Don's attention and he called from the sofa. "What do you mean, Charlie's starting the grill? You cookin' now, Chuck?"

Charlie scowled at the nickname, not realizing he was being baited. "I've done steaks before. You remember – that night when Larry and everyone was over – I made corn and steaks, and –"

"And they sucked," finished Don, trying to hide a grin behind his beer. "They tasted like shoe leather."

Charlie looked outraged. "They did not. They -" He broke off and looked at his dad uncertainly. "They were okay, right?"

Alan suppressed a smile. "Charlie, I think your brother is having some fun at your expense."

Charlie looked at Don, who was no longer hiding his grin. "Oh, I get it." He crossed to sofa and picked up pillow and swatted the back of Don's head as he tried to duck. "See if I invite you for dinner again. Wait a minute – come to think of it, I didn't invite you."

"Watch it, Charlie, you're going to make me spill my beer," Don chuckled.

"Freeloader," muttered Charlie, but he was grinning too. In spite of the jab, he wouldn't give up his brother being here for the world. He threw the pillow back on the sofa, and paused as the televised game suddenly shifted to a special news update. The conversation stopped for a minute as all three Eppes men looked at the screen. A polished looking blonde newscaster with a serious expression appeared on the screen.

"This is a special news update regarding the ongoing standoff between law enforcement and a radical militia group near Yakima, in Washington State," she intoned. The picture segued to a shot of a cabin in the distance, and of armed and flak-jacketed law enforcement officials behind a barricade in the foreground. "As of two o'clock this afternoon, the stalemate has continued for four days. Roughly fifteen members of a group identifying themselves as the "American Defense Union" have barricaded themselves in this cabin, after resisting an attempted arrest for conducting unlawful military exercises on government land. All attempts at negotiations so far have failed, and the tone of the talks seems to our observers on the scene to be more heated, rather than less. The group has issued a statement just moments ago reiterating their refusal to surrender, and in a chilling new development have claimed that they will all die before they submit to "an anarchist government." Analysts are comparing the situation to Waco, and it has captured the attention of law enforcement at the top levels in Washington." The camera switched to the station's on site reporter who repeated the latest exchange between the negotiators. Alan eyed the FBI jackets on some of the law enforcement team positioned behind the reporter.

"I am profoundly grateful that you are not on that assignment," he said to Don.

"Yeah, that's one I could do without," agreed Don, his eyes on the screen. "Portland and Seattle are the nearest offices. They pulled agents from them."

Charlie eyed the screen worriedly. "This has gone on for a while. What if they need fresh agents? Will they pull from your office?"

Don looked at his brother, trying to reassure him. "Nah, Charlie, I don't think so. I've been reading the briefs that are coming through at the office. They've got a slew of agents from Washington, and they have plenty to rotate through shifts. Besides, with this new case, on top of some others we are trying to clean up, we are so swamped, we couldn't afford to give anyone up." He saw the worried looks on his father's and brother's faces dissipate a bit. "Those two are like little old ladies sometimes," he smiled to himself. The report over, the picture switched back to the ballgame in progress. "Now about that shoe leather –"

Alan snorted. "Don't push your brother, Donnie, or you'll be driving through McDonalds." He trotted back out to the kitchen.

Charlie lingered for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "You know Don, speaking of cases; I've been looking over that one from last week. I think there is something we missed. I can't quite put my finger on it –"

"And you don't need to," interrupted Don. "Charlie, we closed that one out, and the director considered it a complete success. We shut down a major money laundering operation."

"I know, but I think it may have been only a part of a bigger picture," said Charlie, a bit excitedly. "What if there's more to it?"

Don groaned inwardly. He didn't need anything extra on his plate at the moment. "You know, Charlie, even if there was, I don't have anyone to put on it right now. By the time we got around to it, if there were any other operations, they would have made adjustments or closed up shop after the arrests. You'd have to start over with new data."

Charlie frowned. "But if I found something quickly maybe we could hit it right away, before they started to cover their tracks."

"Unfortunately, Charlie, that's just not going to happen," Don said with a bit of irritation. "I don't have the resources right now. And my bosses will not back opening up a successfully solved case when I have unsolved ones on my plate. Just drop it, okay?" He ended the conversation by getting up from the sofa and heading out to the kitchen. "Shouldn't you be cooking, or something? I'm going to see if Dad needs any help."

Charlie reluctantly trudged out to the grill. He was so close, he could feel it. He would take one more look at it tonight. If he came up with something by tomorrow, he didn't see how Don could turn down a sure arrest.

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Charlie awoke with a start to the sound of his alarm. Groggy from lack of sleep, he reached over to hit reset, when he remembered the reason he set it early to begin with. Rolling over, he let his feet hit with a thump on the floor and dragged himself into the bathroom to brush his teeth, then went downstairs in search of coffee and his brother. Don had decided to spend the night there after passing out from sheer fatigue on the sofa after dinner. Alan had woken him at around 10:00 pm, and Don didn't argue when both he and Charlie insisted that he stay.

Charlie made his way into the kitchen. His dad was already up and was clearing dishes, with a fresh pot of coffee at hand.

"Hey Dad, is Don up yet?" yawned Charlie, as reached for a mug.

"Good morning, and yes, he's up and gone already – he said they had an early meeting on the shooting case," his father said, as he poured Charlie's coffee.

"You're kidding!" Charlie was dismayed. He had worked on after Don had gone to bed, in a last effort to put some definition to what had been bothering him about the money laundering case. Inspiration finally came at around midnight. He had been looking for related smaller-scale laundering activity generating from the large operation that they had found. When he took a deeper look at how the actual money flowed, he realized that the related activity he suspected didn't come from the large operation – it came from higher up in the order of things. With a thrill of excitement, he realized that he was not looking for smaller set-ups – that the large operation could be one of several bigger ones. They had the potential to shut down more than one operation just as big as the one they found last week. It took until about three in the morning for him to confirm that there were two other possible operations – and that he could go no further without more data, which Don's team could obtain. He finally went to bed, intending to catch Don in the morning and go over it with him.

"Something wrong?" Alan eyed Charlie, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the wild array of curls. "When did you go to bed last night? You look like you've been in a fight and lost."

"Actually, no," said Charlie, pondering the coffee cup. "I think we may have won the fight – I just need to let Don know." He headed out of the kitchen, and back up the stairs, still holding his mug. It was early enough; if he hurried to get ready, he could run into Don's office, brief Don and the team, and still get to campus on time for his first class.

"Charlie – you should eat some breakfast!" Alan shouted after him.

"I'll get something later, Dad, I have to run!" Alan shook his head. He had to get moving himself; he had a meeting with Stan in an hour. He stacked the dishes, grabbed his briefcase and some drawings, and headed out the door. He was intensely curious as to what Charlie was so fired up about, but there was no time to ask this morning. "I'll find out at dinner tonight," he thought. He had no premonition that he would not be seeing either of his sons at dinner, or at any time in the foreseeable future.

A short time later, Charlie was pulling into the lot at the FBI offices. Excitement had been building in him as he drove. The thrill of finding a mathematical solution produced a natural euphoria in him – and to find something that would mean this much to Don was doubly exciting. In the back of his mind echoed Don's irritation from yesterday when Charlie pressed him on continuing with the case. "He can't turn _this_ down, though," Charlie told himself. "This is huge."

Entering the building, he bounded toward the elevators, lugging his briefcase and juggling papers, flashing his badge at the security desk on the way. He did not notice the group of five men that congregated to one side of the desk.

The security guard was relatively new, but he recognized Charlie and let him go on. He turned back to the group in front of him. "I'm sorry, sir, you may very well have a meeting, but you need clearance or a pre-arranged escort to go up."

The big, bearded man in front of him leaned casually on the desk. He spoke with a slight southwestern twang. "Look, son, I know this is probably not the way you usually do things. I don't know what to tell you, other than we were told to meet upstairs with the agent in charge of this office at 7:30 a.m. for a video conference." He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "You realize; we have inside information on the situation up in Washington – Yakima. We were told by our FBI contacts to be here. I would hate to see what your bosses would say to you if we were to turn around and leave because you wouldn't let us in."

The security guard paused, chewing on that one for a moment. "All right," he said, conceding. "But I will need to get an escort for you. That may take a few moments. Please sign in to the registry and take a seat."

"All righty, then," the big man said with an expansive smile. "Thank you, young man."

Don had called for Megan, Colby and David to meet in one of the smaller conference rooms at 7:15 a.m. They filed in with their coffee mugs, alert enough, Don thought, but the signs of the long weekend showed a bit on each of their faces. Don kicked off the meeting with his team with little fanfare. "Okay, we all know where we stood when we left this yesterday. We knew this was going to be a hot one. Well, as of last night, it just got hotter."

Megan picked up on his tone and the flash of irritation behind his eyes. "Oh boy, he's ticked about something," she thought. She sat up a little straighter. Behind her, Colby and David exchanged glances.

Don continued, pacing in front of them. "It seems that the local _and_ the state DA's offices have decided to get involved in this. You all know what that means."

"Yeah," said David. "Politics."

"That's exactly right." Don continued to pace. "Politics, pressure, and the press. They're gearing up for elections, and they want a piece of this. They will also be publicizing anything they can get their hands on." He paused, and rubbed his jaw. "Last night, there was another hit."

Colby glanced, puzzled, at David, then back at Don. "Why didn't you call us out?"

"Because they didn't bother to tell me," Don growled. "LAPD decided to handle it. We had a meeting just prior to this one. That will not happen again – they understand very clearly that we are running this one and they will be briefing their people this morning. However, they will be under a lot of pressure from the DA to be involved, and will possibly get direction that is different from ours. I want you all to be aware of this, and if you see it happening, nip it in the bud or bring it to me. Now let's go over what we have so far." He didn't get a chance to continue. A look of puzzled annoyance crossed his face, and Megan turned to see Charlie bustling in through the door.

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The security guard glanced at his watch, then at the group of visitors clustered in the chairs, and then over at the metal detector that was positioned a few feet from the desk. It had been down since the security guard had arrived an about an hour and a half ago. It hadn't been an issue up until now; this was the first group of visitors. A technician was hard at work on the wiring. He glanced at the roster, idly looking over the signatures. "Jack Smith, Bill Gray, John Williams, Mike Jones, and Dave Black," he read. "These can't be real names. I need to check these against their IDs." A thought dawned on him. "Maybe they're undercover – or under a witness protection program," he conjectured. "How much longer will that be?" he called to the tech.

"Oh, maybe another half-hour."

The security guard scratched his head nervously, and looked up as the escort approached. Lisa Johnson was moderately attractive and athletically built, and wore her plain button down shirt and khaki pants with an air of professionalism and a bit of an attitude. "Hey, Lisa."

"Hey, Frank. What do we have here?" she asked, as she eyed the group. They defied categorization, she noted. Almost all of them had full beards, except for one sporting a thick mustache. They were all big beefy men, and looked like they would be more at home in plaid shirts, but they were neatly dressed in shirts, jackets, and overcoats, and a few of them carried a briefcase or a satchel.

"They say they were called in by the office to meet with Don Eppes at 7:30," said Frank. "Something to do with that standoff situation up in Washington. They said something about a video conference upstairs. We've got a problem though – the detector's down." He jerked his head over at the technician. "The guy says another half hour – that would make them pretty late for that meeting."

Lisa frowned slightly; then her expression cleared. This wouldn't be the first time they had by-passed the metal detector. It had been put in a few months earlier after a shooting in the office, and generally speaking, they were pretty good about following protocol when it came to using it, but it wasn't unheard of to escort important visitors in without it. "Did you sign them in?" she asked. The guard nodded, momentarily forgetting that he needed to check their IDs. Lisa stepped forward. "Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Lisa Johnson, and I will be your escort upstairs. I need to check your briefcases – just a formality – then we can proceed."

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Charlie glanced quickly around the conference room as he entered. "Hey, wow, you're all here! That's great," he exclaimed excitedly as he deposited his briefcase and hastily began hauling out papers.

Don's feeling of annoyance was quickly escalating into anger, but he tried to keep his voice steady. "Charlie, what are you doing? We're in the middle of something." The other agents exchanged glances and Colby smirked at little, which only served to increase Don's irritation.

Charlie was so immersed in setting up his material he failed to notice the expression on his brother's face. "Don, I know you guys are busy, but you will really want to hear this. I'll be quick. Remember what I was telling you about the money laundering case yesterday?"

"What I remember," Don said, emphasizing each word, "is that I told you we don't have time for this now, and to let it go. I will talk to you about it later."

Charlie looked up at this, and saw the frown on Don's face. Realizing he might be about to lose his audience, he plowed ahead even more vigorously. Grabbing his papers, he stepped up to Don's side, and tried to show him the first sheet. "Look, I can explain this really quickly - if you look at the flow diagram –"

"Charlie," said Don through gritted teeth. He grabbed Charlie's arm, perhaps a little harder than he intended to, and steered him toward his briefcase. "Leave now." He turned back toward the front of the room

"But –"

"Charlie, what part of the word "priority" do you not understand?" roared Don, wheeling back around. "Get the hell out of here!"

Charlie stood speechless, with his mouth open. He shut it, opened it again, then shut it and turned around, but not before catching Megan's sympathetic glance. He grabbed his papers and briefcase, hauling them in one big unruly armful out of the door. Don watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned back to the group to find them staring at him with solemn expressions, like schoolchildren facing an angry teacher.

Even though they hadn't said a word, he felt like he needed to explain. "Charlie and I talked about that case last night," he said defensively. "I told him then to drop it. When he gets his head around a problem, he's like a pit bull on amphetamines. He just will not let go."

Megan cocked her head and looked at Don through slightly narrowed eyes. "You were pretty hard on him."

"Yeah, well, he deserved it. He needs to understand that we need to prioritize," Don said gruffly, but he looked back out the door with a bit of concern. He could see Charlie standing by some file cabinets, trying to organize his things. Megan followed his gaze.

"Why don't you go talk to him?" she said, "We'll wait." She caught Colby in the middle of a grin.

"Sorry," said Colby, now grinning outright. "It's just that pit bull thing – and Charlie-" He caught David looking at him sideways. "Never mind." Megan turned back to Don, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

"Okay, I _will_ talk to him," Don said. "_Later_. We need to get on with this."

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Charlie's face was burning with humiliation. He ducked his head down as he tried to organize his papers on the file cabinet. It would have been bad enough to be spoken to that way from Don, but to be dismissed like a child in front of the group – he felt as though he wanted to crawl in a hole. Why wouldn't these papers behave? He kept his head lowered, hoping no one would see the flush on cheeks, trying to get his emotions in check before he walked out.

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Lisa stepped off the elevators with her group of visitors. "I was told you would be using the conference room with the video capability," she said. "Let me grab Marcy and make sure she set it up." She stepped over to a desk near the elevators and spoke to a short brunette.

The men congregated in the center of the hallway. "Okay, be ready," said the big man quietly to the group. I want the agent in charge and maybe four or five others. Follow my lead."

Marcy and Lisa approached, Marcy with a quizzical smile on her face. She held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Marcy Sherwood. Guys, I have to apologize – I didn't have the room scheduled and it's not set up. I imagine this is a last-minute deal, right?"

"You could say that," the big man said with a smile on his face. He took her hand in an enormous paw. "Hi - Jack Smith. I'm afraid we don't know the details – we were just asked to be here. I am not even sure what the lead agent's name is."

"Oh, that would be Don Eppes," said Lisa. "I think he is in another meeting, but I am sure he will be right here. Marcy, maybe we can set up the conference room while we're waiting for him."

"Okay," said Marcy. "Let me grab the remotes." She stepped over to a desk and grabbed a small bag, and rejoined the group. "This way," she said.

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Charlie finally tired of fighting his papers and crammed the last of them into his bag. His stomach was in a knot. Head still down, he made his way down aisle between the cubicles and turned left to head to the elevators. His thoughts churning inside his head as he rounded the corner, he paid little attention to where he was going and nearly ran into a group of people coming towards him. He stopped short in front of a large bearded man.

Jack Smith paused and looked at the nametag on the man in front of him. "Eppes," he read. His eyes narrowed as he took in the man's appearance. Small, young, hair a little too long, jacket with a T-shirt underneath, he noted. "Doesn't look like a fed," he thought. Name was right, though. He held out his hand, reaching under his jacket with his other hand. "Agent Eppes?" he queried. "Jack Smith."

Charlie, taken aback, looked up at the man, who was a full head taller than he was. He took the man's hand, but before he could introduce himself, Marcy jumped in. "Oh, that's not Agent Eppes," she smiled. "That's his brother, Charlie. Charlie consults here." She suddenly stopped talking, turning pale, and looked towards their still-clasped hands. Charlie, politely trying to extricate his hand from the big man's, followed her gaze and froze. Pointing directly at his middle was a handgun. He stared, paralyzed, with a twisting terror starting in his chest.

Jack thought quickly, his cold blue eyes narrowing. "Well now, Charlie," he said softly. "I would like you to slowly set down that bag and turn around." Charlie heard the man talking, but the words were not registering. His ears were roaring, and his knees felt like rubber. Behind him, the other men had moved around Lisa and Marcy, and had trained guns on their backs. "Do as I say, and no one will get hurt," said Jack, still quietly, but more insistently, his eyes glued on Charlie. When Charlie still did not respond, he exploded. He jabbed his pistol at the ceiling and let loose a shot, then spun Charlie around by the shoulder and grabbed his jacket and T-shirt at the neck. Charlie felt the hot muzzle of the pistol against the back of his jaw. "WALK!" Smith commanded. He followed that with a shout intended for the office personnel who were shocked into action by the shot. "Everyone stay calm, put their weapons down and their hands on their heads, and no one gets hurt!"

Don and his team were just finishing the morning briefing when they heard the shot. Don's first reaction was "Not again!" thinking of the shooting in the office months before. An agent had been killed. His second thought took in the fact that the shots had come from the hallway by the elevators, and immediately on the heels of that, was "Where is Charlie?" All of this spun through his head in a split second. His feet were already moving of their own accord toward the sound, as his agents scrambled to their feet behind him. He reached for his piece as he ran, fear mounting in his gut. He knew that Charlie had headed for the elevators moments before – he had watched him out of the corner of his eye. He felt a shock of relief as he saw Charlie come around the corner, followed immediately by horror as he saw the gun pressed to Charlie's jaw, and the huge man holding him by the neck. He could sense the other agents and office personnel on the other side of the dividers, hands on their heads, and his own team just behind him as he froze. Charlie was ghostly white, his dark eyes huge in his face, and Don could see the terror in them as Charlie focused on him.

The big man narrowed his eyes at Don, and his team in the aisle just behind him. "Put your weapons down," he commanded. Don could see the rest of the man's group move into position behind him, and noted that they also had control of Marcy and Lisa. A shootout would result in too many casualties. His heart hammering, he slowly bent his knees and laid his gun on the carpet. He sensed, rather than heard, that his team did the same.

"I'm looking for Don Eppes," the big man announced, looking directly at Don.

"That's me." Don words came out calmly, belying the storm in his gut. "What do you want?"

The big man tightened his grip on the back of Charlie's jacket. Charlie could feel his T-shirt tightening at the front of his neck, and he struggled to breathe. "I want you and your agents," the man said, "to follow Miss Marcy into the conference room that she is going to set up for us. Move quickly and quietly with your hands on your head."

"You can leave my agents out of this," Don countered. "You and I can talk directly –"

"Shut up!" bellowed the man, shaking Charlie slightly. His finger tightened on the trigger and Don tensed. "You are not in a position to negotiate. Do as you are told, or your brother pays the price." With a twist of fear, Don looked at Charlie, who closed his eyes, and appeared to be desperately trying to keep from collapsing.

"Don, it's okay," whispered David, behind him. "Just go, man." With a sinking feeling, Don started down the aisle, hands up.

Charlie watched his brother walk toward him, with David, Megan and Colby behind. "I screwed up, I screwed up," he kept thinking desperately. When first confronted with the gun, he had frozen. "Don would have fought the man right there," thought Charlie, in inner agony. "He wouldn't have put everyone in jeopardy. How could I have been so slow, so dense?" Don was passing him now, in slow motion, it seemed. He turned and looked sideways at Charlie as he passed, his brow furrowed in a frown. Charlie closed his eyes. "He knows," Charlie thought. "He knows I screwed this up, just like I screwed up on the money laundering thing this morning." He lurched forward, suddenly pushed from behind, and opening his eyes, he realized that all of the others, including Marcy and Lisa were already walking into the conference room. He and his captor were the last ones in. The door clicked shut behind them.

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The conference room was the largest on the floor, and one of the largest in the building. It contained two square pillars down the center, and several long tables and chairs. On one of them was a computer tied to video conferencing equipment. The far wall, on the other side of the pillars, was free of tables and chairs, and sported brackets from which to hang pictures and papers for brainstorming sessions. The agents, Marcy, and Lisa were herded toward the wall. Smith kept a tight grip on Charlie, the gun still at his neck.

"Hands on the wall," he barked, and then to his men, "Check 'em out. Get their badges."

Two of the other men began patting down the group. The only one that was packing extra heat that morning was Colby, and he grimaced in frustration as the searching hands found and retrieved the gun from his leg holster. Don was lined up in the center, facing the wall, with Marcy and Lisa to his left, and Megan, Colby and David to his right. He stole a glance behind him, assessing their captors. "Jesus Christ!" he muttered to himself angrily. "How in the hell did they get those guns in here?" All of them had handguns, and one even held a sawed off shotgun at his hip, which he had pulled from under his overcoat.

One person in the room knew exactly how they managed it. Lisa Johnson was green under her normally dark skin tone. "Oh, my God, oh, my God," she moaned to herself. "I did this. Why didn't I check them out along with their briefcases?" She knew the answer – she had thought that they were important visitors who were late for a meeting, and she didn't want to annoy them further by the indignity of a hand search. She also knew that was no excuse; she broken the one overriding rule that she had been taught since she started with the Bureau – always follow procedure. She hadn't done that this morning, and the guilt was overwhelming her.

The search over, Smith snarled, "Turn around and sit with your backs to the wall." He pushed Charlie forward between Megan and Don and gave him a hard shove. Charlie's shaky legs weren't ready for the push, and he stumbled, turning sideways to the wall, smacking into it, sliding down and landing with a thud on his backside. He immediately curled up with his knees to his chin and his hands around them, his eyes closed.

Don looked at him with concern. He saw Megan stealing a glance at Charlie from the other side. From Don's vantage point, he could see the red welt behind Charlie's jaw where the gun muzzle had burned him. "You okay?" he whispered.

Charlie opened his eyes and shot a tortured look at Don. "I'm sorry," he whispered back. Don frowned in puzzlement. "What the heck is he sorry about?" he wondered. Charlie saw the frown and turned away, closing his eyes again.

"No talking unless spoken to!" barked Smith, glaring at them from the center table. He had been looking through the badges, trying to get an idea of who his captives were. Marcy was an administrative assistant, he noted, and Charles Eppes was a consultant. He hadn't planned on taking any civilians, but these two would be quite useful. He would need Marcy to help set up the video conferencing. "And the consultant," he thought, glancing at Charlie and Don, "could provide some leverage." The rest of them were federal agents, for which he felt nothing but loathing. He didn't plan to kill anyone unless the situation warranted, but if it came down to it, feds were expendable. For that matter, so were the people that worked for them, he thought, his eyes resting on Charlie. His gaze shifted to Lisa. "Agent Johnson, come here," he commanded.

Lisa stood and stepped forward to face him. "First, young lady," said Smith with a hard smile, "Let me commend you for allowing us in with these firearms. We fully expected to have to blast our way in, but you made that unnecessary." Lisa couldn't see her fellow captives; they were behind her, but she felt the eyes bore into her back, and she could imagine the hard line of Don's jaw. "It worked out well for everyone," Smith continued, for Don's benefit. "No one has been hurt, and if everyone follows orders, no one will be. Now young lady, I have a very important assignment for you. I am shortly going to turn you loose. When you leave here, you will do the following: Number one, make sure this floor is clear. If there is anyone left out there, you will get them out. After you leave, I will station a man outside the door. If he sees anyone, and I mean anyone, on this floor, he will inform me, and I will start shooting the people in this room. Do you understand?" His blue eyes narrowed and bored into Lisa's.

"Yes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Second, you will leave here with the contact number for setting up a video conference. You will find your director, or whoever is in charge, and instruct them to set up a video conference with this location. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said again. Setting me free is the final humiliation, she thought. It's my fault that these people are here. I deserve to be here with them.

"Good. Miss Marcy", he drawled, "what are the conference line number, and the phone number for this room?" Marcy recited them in a shaking voice, and Smith wrote them on a scrap of paper and handed it to Lisa. "Now go," he said, "and remember, these people are depending on you. Don't screw up."

"I already have," thought Lisa. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and left the room without a backwards glance.

Don watched her go, and then looked back at Smith. "You mind telling me what this is about?" Charlie's head came up and his eyes opened, and he glanced a little fearfully at Don.

"What this is about," said Smith deliberately, pacing forward to stand in front of Don, "is a little situation up in Washington State. We are members of the ADU, and our request is very simple – you feds release our brothers in Washington and drop all charges, and we will release you. Very simple, no one gets hurt if you do it right."

At the explanation, Don's heart sank. "You realize," he said, looking hard at Smith, "that the federal government does not have a history of negotiating with hostage takers."

Smith responded, smiling. "There have been a few exceptions. I intend for this to be one of them." He turned to Marcy, and spoke with a disarming smile. "Darlin', I need you to come up here and set up this equipment for me."

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When Lisa left the room, she did an immediate search of the offices on the floor, and found that they had already been vacated. Furthermore, a trip to the floor above revealed that that floor was also empty, including her destination, the office of the Assistant Director, Merrick. She was momentarily nonplussed, and wondered where he would be. Guessing down, she rode the elevator to the first floor. As the doors opened, her heart shot into her throat as several voices yelled "Freeze!" and she saw the muzzles of at least a dozen weapons trained in her direction. She raised her hands, and yelled, "Lisa Johnson! I'm alone."

In a matter of minutes she found herself seated next to Frank, the security guard, in a room off the first floor lobby, facing Merrick himself. He looked at her coldly. "Frank was just telling me about his part in this." She glanced over at Frank, who looked miserable. "You were the escort?" asked Merrick. "Perhaps you want to explain yourself as well."

She had expected the words to stick in her throat, but they came out with a rush. She gave him all of the details, including her disastrous rationale for not doing a hand search. She knew they would fire her, and she was convinced that she deserved it – but she had to do all she could to make this right. She finished with the last request. "He wants to set up a video conference with you. I have the call-in numbers."

Merrick frowned. "Did you get names? Did they give you any idea of what this is about?"

Lisa looked at Frank. "Nothing, other than they said something to Frank about the situation in Washington. I don't know if that has anything to do with what they want, though. They didn't say. There was a sign in-sheet." She looked at Frank again, who looked down at his knees.

"I have that already, for what it's worth," Merrick growled. He turned sideways and picked up his cell phone. "George, I need something right away. I need you to find me the nearest room in the area that has video conferencing capabilities. Right. Thanks." He turned back to Lisa and Frank. His expression was not encouraging. "That's all for now. Stay with the team on the first floor. We may have more questions later."

Frank beat a hasty retreat but Lisa paused at the door. She wanted desperately to apologize somehow. Merrick scowled up at her. "Agent Johnson, did I not ask you to leave? I need to brief Washington. Do you have something else?"

"No sir," she said quietly, and left the room. Merrick rubbed his forehead. He was fuming. They had several good agents being held in that office, and one consultant that he was sure would generate some interest at the NSA. On top of it all, this stunt was making his office look inept. He groaned in frustration and picked up the phone.

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Megan tore her eyes from Charlie and looked to her left at Colby and David. They were watching him too. David looked at Megan and shook his head slightly. Colby stared at Charlie, who was still curled in a ball, hands around his knees with his eyes closed, and breathing rapidly. "Man," thought Colby, "he looks like he's heading for a meltdown." Megan turned back toward Charlie. She could see Don watching Charlie from the other side, brow furrowed in concern. Megan glanced up at the table with the computer equipment. The men were clustered around it and Marcy was nervously explaining the video conference setup. Two of the men were holding weapons and were supposed to be watching them, but they too had their heads turned toward Marcy. Megan turned back toward Charlie. "Charlie?" she whispered.

Charlie looked up at her voice and shook his head miserably. He turned away again, but kept his eyes open. His stomach was in a painful knot, and his heart was pounding. It was taking all of his concentration just to breathe. Megan recognized the signs of a panic attack. "Charlie," she whispered again. "I want you to relax your shoulders and slow your breathing down."

Don listened from the other side. "Charlie, you need to listen to Megan. Just slow down." He inched closer to his brother.

Charlie closed his eyes again, an expression of sheer pain on his face. "Don, I messed up," he whispered between breaths. "I sh- should have fought them, sl- slowed them down."

Don's expression softened. "Nah, Charlie, Charlie listen to me; that would have been exactly the wrong thing to do. That would have gotten someone killed. Look at me." Charlie shook his head. "No, Charlie, look at me."

Charlie reluctantly opened his eyes and turned. The pain in his eyes tore at Don's heart, and he had to steady himself before he spoke. He glanced sideways, before continuing. "You did exactly the right thing, you understand?" He looked intently into Charlie's eyes. Charlie relaxed, just a bit, almost imperceptibly. "Okay?"

Charlie said nothing for a moment; he just looked at Don. Finally, he nodded. He could feel some of the tightness leaving his chest. He glanced over at the men clustered around Marcy and the computer, then back at Don. "What do we do now?" he whispered.

"We wait," said Don. "We wait."

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The wait proved to be maddening. The psyches of captors and captives alike were stressed at best, and tension seemed to be escalating in the room, rather than diminishing. After two hours, all of the captives were tired of sitting on the floor, and Smith was pacing like an angry bear, getting wary glances from everyone in the room, including his own men. At one point, Charlie's cell phone, which had been confiscated, rang and vibrated loudly on the table causing everyone to start. Smith growled, grabbed the phone and listened for a moment, then shut it off and flung it into a corner, and resumed pacing. Without communication, they had no way of knowing the furious work that was going on in the building across the street.

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The building across the street was the newly renovated Hyde Park Hotel. It boasted several conference rooms and two ballrooms, among other amenities. One of the conference rooms had video conferencing equipment, but it had not been hooked up again after the renovation. Nevertheless Merrick had decided the location was perfect, and with the hotel manager's permission, had taken over that conference room, plus one other, and one of the ballrooms. Electricians were hard at work on the wiring for the video equipment. Teams had been left in place on the first floor of the FBI building, on alert in the event of something unexpected. Merrick had briefed his superiors in D.C. on the situation, who were in the process of communicating the information to other key members of government. They were meeting later that morning – an oversight committee had been formed and had been meeting daily on the Yakima standoff – and the new development was to be discussed at that morning's meeting. Merrick had one of his people preparing a briefing for that meeting, and another preparing a statement to the press, which he had been authorized to deliver. He dreaded the press briefing. "That is the point," he thought, "at which this whole mess becomes a circus." He dreaded the committee briefing even more.

The oversight committee had been formed to prevent a recurrence of the debacle at Waco. It was comprised of members of the White House staff, FBI and NSA, and was presided over by two members of the Senate. The committee had been relatively evenly split on how to handle the situation, with one group leaning toward allowing the members of the militia group their freedom in the interests of preserving human life, and the other holding to the historical "never negotiate" perspective. Of late, more of the members were favoring freedom for the group, mostly as a result of polls that showed the majority of the American public was in favor of it. That would probably not have been the case a few years earlier, but in the aftermath of 911, a group that touted readiness for terrorist attacks was looked on more favorably, even if they were a little extreme in their training methods.

Bob Tompkins, Assistant Director of the NSA, was a ranking member of the committee, and had been holding to the more conservative non-negotiation approach. As he sat in his office that morning, he had no idea that he was about to get news that would change his mind. It was about 6:30 a.m. D.C. time and he was plowing through the morning briefings, when a knock came at the door, and his assistant stuck his head in.

"Sir," he said, "sorry to interrupt, but you will want to see this." He handed Tompkins the brief, and stood by, waiting.

Tompkins frowned as he read. The frown got deeper as he saw "LA offices of the FBI," and the listing of the agents prompted a groan of "Oh, man," as he saw Don Eppes listed under the agents. With a growing unease, he continued, and reached the name of Charles Eppes. "Shit," he said, staring at the paper, and then rubbed a weary hand over his face. He looked up at his assistant. "Is the meeting still at 8:00?"

"Yes, sir. The Bureau plans to have a full briefing ready,"

"All right, thank you. I have some calls to make," he said, reaching for his phone, as his assistant quietly shut the door.

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Dr. Larry Fleinhart was disturbed. His friend, Dr. Charles Eppes, was absent, without explanation or so much as a call-in to the department head. One of Charlie's graduate assistants had burst into Larry's office earlier that morning, asking if Larry had any idea where Professor Eppes was. Apparently, Charlie's first period class was sitting in the lecture hall, waiting to be lectured to, without a professor or a substitute. Larry made a call to the math department, and let them know about the situation. He had no idea whether they eventually found a substitute or dismissed the class – as soon as he hung up he dialed Amita. She also had no idea why Charlie would be absent, especially without calling off. At the moment, they were both on break, and Amita had come over to Larry's office.

Earlier, after calling Amita, Larry had tried Charlie's cell phone, and it seemed at first that someone picked up, but the connection was broken. When he tried again, it went straight to Charlie's voice mail. Larry had next tried the Eppes household, and when he got no answer, he correctly surmised that Alan was also at work that day. He was stuck there – he didn't have Alan's cell phone number. What he couldn't fathom was the fact that no one, not even a secretary, was answering the phones at the FBI offices. He and Amita had spent the last few minutes trying to come up with rational benign explanations for the situation, and trying to squelch the uneasiness they both felt. Amita, restless, had wandered over to the windows, when another one of the math department grad students burst in.

"Hey," he said, breathless, "you guys need to get to a TV. There's something going on at the FBI offices. Doesn't Dr. Eppes go there sometimes?"

Larry and Amita looked at each other, and took off wordlessly out the door to the faculty lounge. The Breaking News emblem was in the corner of the TV, and the newscaster, positioned in the street outside the FBI offices, was giving the report with barely suppressed excitement. They listened to the sketchy details. No names of hostages were given, but they both felt a sinking situation in the pits of their stomachs. Larry's hands crept toward his head, one hand ending up on his cheek, and the other reaching almost all the way over the top of his head to meet it. "Oh," he said, staring at the TV. "Oh dear."

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Alan and Stan had just finished with a client, and were going over some plans in Stan's office when Alan's phone rang in the adjoining office. He stepped out to retrieve the call, and when he re-entered, he was walking so slowly that he got Stan's attention. He looked up from the plans to see Alan, pale as ghost, put a trembling hand on the door jamb for support.

"Stan," he said shakily, "something's come up with the boys. I need to go." Stan took one look at his partner and realized that something was seriously wrong.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not quite sure myself," said Alan. "but from what the man on the phone just told me, they are being held hostage in the FBI building by some gunmen." He looked shocked and bewildered by the surreal words that had come out of his own mouth.

Stan stood, stunned for a moment, and then immediately began picking up his desk. "I'll drive you," he said.

"No, you'd better not," said Alan, turning towards his office. "They don't want anyone down there." He muttered to himself, "Like that's going to keep me away."

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Merrick stood watching the scene in the street below from the conference room window. He was right – it was a circus. Even though they had set up sawhorses and yellow tape cordoning off the street between the two main entrances to the buildings, news vans had still pulled up on either side, and reporters and cameramen clustered in the street as close as they could to the tape. LAPD was trying to keep back the gathering crowd of news people and curiosity seekers.

"We're ready sir," the technician said behind him.

Merrick turned to the group in front of him, which consisted of specialists trained in hostage negotiation, FBI personnel, LAPD, and a representative from the local NSA offices. "Very well," he said, picking up the phone. "Let's initiate contact."

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The conference room phone shrilled, and every head in the room looked up. Smith got to the phone in two strides. "Yes?" he said sharply. "You're talking to him." Don exchanged glances with his team. Smith had gotten progressively angrier over the last hour and seemed on the verge of explosion. He was making very little attempt at keeping anger and derision out of his voice as spoke. "We are more than ready, considering the fact that we have been prepared to conference with you since 8:00 this morning," he snarled. "Call into the video conference in 15 minutes."

He hung up the phone a grabbed a sheet of paper from the table. "All right, Eppes, you're on," he said, striding over to Don. "There is a list of our demands on this sheet of paper. I want you to read them over. When we come on line, you are going to present them." He thrust the paper at Don.

Don didn't move to take the paper. He looked up calmly and uttered one word. "No."

Charlie swung his head quickly toward his brother. "What are you doing?" he thought wildly. He looked back at Smith in a panic, who was barely controlling his rage.

"You most certainly will," Smith grated through clenched teeth. Two of his men moved next to Don, who ignored them.

Don's face hardened. He stood up and faced Smith, eyes narrowed. "You set this up – you negotiate. I'm not going to be part of your dog-and-pony show."

Charlie closed his eyes, sure that Don was bringing a beating on himself, or worse. "Please Don," he thought, "don't do this."

Colby and David looked on in approval. "Don's trying to rattle him," whispered David, and Colby nodded.

Smith's face was purple. There was an awful pause, and suddenly Smith charged forward much faster than anyone would have anticipated - but not towards Don. He grabbed Charlie by the front of the shirt with his left hand, lifted him against the wall, and screamed, with spittle flying from his lips. "You want me to negotiate?!" He drove a fist into Charlie's rib cage with all of his might. "How's this? And this?" He was screaming like a madman, pummeling Charlie's rib cage with each blow. Charlie felt his breath leave him with the first one, and vainly gasped for breath, but the onslaught gave him no chance to recover, and stabbing pain made his head swim. Don, horrified, moved toward Smith, but the two men beside him grabbed either arm. There was sickening sound of breaking bones as Smith pounded again and again. "No!" yelled Don. "Stop it, God damn it, stop!"

Smith stopped his sledgehammer blows but didn't relinquish his grip, and swiveled his head toward Don. "You want to rethink your answer?" he rasped.

"Yeah, I'll do it, I'll read it," said Don, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking with emotion. "Just – just let him go." Smith opened his fist and Charlie collapsed, face twisted in pain, still vainly trying to take in air. Beyond Charlie's slumped form, Don could see Megan's, Colby's and David's faces, all with horrified looks that surely mirrored his own.

Smith stepped over to Don, his face just inches away. "Just understand who you're dealing with, fed." He gestured with his head toward the table. "Get him over here, we're about to start." The two men hustled Don over to the monitor, Don craning over his shoulder to look at Charlie. He saw Colby and Megan get up and move toward Charlie, and two guards leveled their weapons at them.

"Chill out," snarled Colby, "we're just going to check him out." The guards lifted their weapons, but stayed put as Colby and Megan bent over Charlie.

"He's got the wind knocked out of him," said Megan quietly.

Colby nodded. "Charlie, try to breathe out first, then in."

Charlie was dimly aware of Colby bending over him, and heard his words over a roaring in his ears. He couldn't seem to get his chest to respond. Although it went against every instinct, he tried to exhale instead of inhaling, and on the rebound actually managed to take in a little air, at the expense of a stabbing sensation in his chest. The gasping turned into shaky breaths, as he tried to control the pain, which seemed to escalate with every breath. The roaring in his ears was getting louder. He was dimly aware of Don, standing across the room holding a paper and talking – and Colby and Megan floating over him. He watched their heads begin to spin around above him, and he floated into blackness.

-----------End Chapter 5-------------------------------------


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Alan Eppes arrived downtown and found he could park nowhere near the FBI offices or the hotel. He finally found a spot for his car, and made his way to the large group of people milling around the sawhorses. An LAPD officer was standing guard at a small opening in the barrier, and Alan approached him. "Where can I find the people in charge?" he asked.

"No one's allowed in, sir," replied the officer.

"I am the father of two of the hostages. I have been asked to report to the command center," Alan replied evenly. He wasn't going to be squeamish over a slight stretch of the truth where his boys were concerned.

"Oh," said the officer, disconcerted. "Go through the main doors of the hotel, to the second floor. They will direct you there."

"Thank you," said Alan, and strode through the barrier and into the hotel. In the lobby, several people were milling around, and he could see doors open to the ballroom, which looked like a combination marshalling and break area for law enforcement personnel. He paused briefly, got his bearings, and took the stairs to the second floor. He followed the corridor toward the conference rooms and approached an agent standing outside the door.

"I'm Alan Eppes," he said, holding out his hand. "Two of the hostages are my sons – I would like to speak to whoever is in charge."

The agent took Alan's hand with a sympathetic smile. "That would be Assistant Director Merrick, Mr. Eppes, but I'm afraid he's in an important conference at the moment. We are asking any family members on the premises to remain in Ballroom A on the first floor. We will gather you together and brief you when we can. Do you have a business card with your phone number?" Alan fished one from his wallet and handed it to him. "I will get this to him, sir."

"Thank you," said Alan. His polite demeanor masked the frustration and fear roiling inside. He wanted to scream at someone. Turning, he went down the stairs into the ballroom he had seen earlier. Television monitors were up in the room. A news bulletin got his attention and he wandered toward the nearest monitor. "Maybe I can get some news this way," he thought wryly, as the broadcaster introduced the story. The screen changed, and he nearly dropped to the ground in shock. The face of his oldest son filled the screen.

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Merrick's mouth was set in a hard line. "Run that tape again," he commanded.

They had finished the video conference moments before and were reviewing the tape. Smith was on the screen at the moment.

"He's trying to disguise himself to some degree with the beard and the sunglasses," noted an agent, "but he has know we'll ID him eventually."

"He's also keeping his exposure down as much as possible," said the NSA agent. "He wasn't on the screen very long – he had Eppes do most of the talking. Notice that the other hostages and the other captors are nowhere in view."

The image of Don Eppes flashed onto the screen. He read the demands calmly enough, but he looked pale, and at one point his eyes flickered nervously to the side. "He looks rattled," thought Merrick grimly. "I wonder what is happening in there."

As Don finished talking, Merrick spoke aloud. "The demands seem to be very simple. Drop charges and allow their men in Yakima to leave unharmed, followed with their own release, with no charges filed. Not a lot of room for negotiation." Not that Washington would negotiate, he thought to himself.

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the head of a young, very excited agent. "Sir," he said, addressing Merrick, "You're not going to believe this, but the video conference is being televised on all three major networks."

Merrick's jaw dropped. "What? Are you sure?"

"Yes sir. It's on in the ballroom right now."

"What in the hell –," Merrick turned to the agent beside him. Before he could speak, the phone in the center of the conference room rang. One of the negotiators picked it up. He held up his hand, requesting silence.

"They have another request sir. They are requesting food – sandwiches and bottled water, and they want agent Johnson to deliver it." He listened for a moment. At Merrick's nod, he said into the phone, "Yes, we'll get it to you. Thirty minutes. We understand."

Merrick scowled. "Get Lisa Johnson up here. Get the food arranged. And get me the numbers of the local stations. I want to talk to the station heads, now."

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Jack Smith rubbed his jaw and looked at the agents clustered around Charlie. After the conference was over, Don had turned and gone directly to Charlie's side, and Smith had let him go. All of them, including Marcy, were now bent over Charlie's inert form. "That Eppes is a cool one," he thought, looking at Don. "Doesn't rattle easily." Don's composure was in direct conflict with his own, and the thought riled him. He had always had a tendency toward violent mood swings and a vicious temper, and others' fear of it had allowed him to rise in an organization founded on paranoia and mistrust. He secretly envied and hated those who could keep their composure in high pressure situations, and hating Eppes was even easier, because he represented organized government. Smith smiled behind his hand, remembering Don's reaction to his assault on Charlie. "I made him squirm there, though," he thought with satisfaction.

He glanced at the television screen in front of him, and began flicking through channels with the remote. The conference room was equipped with a television on a cart and he had swiveled it around to face him. He saw with approval that the stations were all carrying the video conference. He had placed calls to the networks and had given them the call-in number just minutes before the conference. None of them had been able to get set up in time to carry it live, but they had all gotten the broadcast out within minutes of each other. Next time he would have to give them a little more notice, he thought. He brought up CNN and noted the Breaking News banner at the bottom with elation. The more pressure that the media and the American public could bring to bear, the better chances he had of accomplishing his objective.

He looked again over at the group of hostages. He saw the concern on faces of the agents as the bent over Charlie. There was something – naivety, vulnerability- about the young man that brought out protective behavior in each of them. Smith mused on that, looking at Charlie. He wondered how that quality would come across on the television screen. He turned to one of the men standing beside him. "Go break them up."

Charlie's eyes flickered open, and a groan escaped him. He was looking at strong forearms – he watched sinews and muscles ripple in them as hands pushed up shirt sleeves, and followed the arms upward to the face. Don was peering intently at him.

"Hey Charlie," he said softly, "How're you doing?"

Charlie was having a difficult time breathing without setting off searing pain in his side. "Hurts," he finally gasped out. He was quickly learning to take shallow breaths to minimize the pain – just more of them. He realized he was holding his arms protectively over his left side.

Don touched his forearm gently. "Charlie, we need to take a look at that." Charlie reluctantly moved his arms, and Don pushed aside his jacket and gently lifted his T-shirt. "Hold up his shirt," he said to Megan. He prodded gently, and Charlie's face contorted in pain, and his body stiffened. He tried not to cry out, but a "huh" – a cross between a groan and a gasp, finally escaped, along with the breath he had been holding. David, watching, winced in sympathy and shook his head. Charlie's side was one big mottled blotch of red and purple, and David could only imagine how much it hurt.

"Okay, Charlie, just one more thing. I need to listen to your chest." Don bent down and placed his ear gently to Charlie's side. "Take a couple of deep breaths for me, Buddy." Charlie complied, but the ensuing pain wrenched a groan from his lips. Don straightened, with a slight frown. "He's definitely got some broken ribs," he said quietly to the others. "I can hear breath sounds on that side of his chest, though."

The guard with the sawed-off shotgun approached. "Okay," he said, "Back off. Spread out and sit down." The group reluctantly parted, and the man prodded Charlie's leg with his foot. "Sit up." Charlie felt a momentary pang of fear – he wasn't sure if he _could_ sit up – but he didn't want to make the man angry either. He struggled onto his elbows, eyes closed tightly against the pain that seared through his side, and then, arms trembling, tried to push himself into a sitting position. He felt a hand behind him; Don had grabbed the back of his jeans and was helping to lift him. He found himself situated against the wall, and sat for a moment with his head down and his eyes closed, trying to calm the pain in his side. Actually, a sitting position turned out to be more comfortable than lying down, and he began to breathe a bit easier.

Don studied his brother with concern. Charlie's face was white, and pinched with pain, and his breathing was quick and shallow. His gut twisted when he thought of what had transpired, and as he realized that he had been the one to cause Smith to go berserk. "That was stupid, Eppes," he told himself. "The guy rubs you the wrong way and you decide to be a cowboy, and look what happens."

He looked past Charlie to the faces of his agents. Megan, he could see, was as always studying the faces of the people around her, assessing their behavior. She was composed, but he knew her well enough to see the strain in her eyes. He could see the toll this was taking on David and Colby too; David had pulled a grim veil over his normally expressive eyes, and Colby had a hard set to his jaw that Don had never seen before. Both of them were watching their captors without appearing to. Don glanced to his right, at Marcy. She was a secretary, he thought, and no more equipped to handle this than Charlie was. She was doing surprisingly well, considering, but he could see the fear in her face and tension in her body. They were all depending on him to lead them in this, he knew, and he had never in all of his years in law enforcement felt so helpless to control the situation. The thought brought fear with it, and when he looked again at Charlie, guilt. His gaze settled on Smith. "That guy is a loaded canon," he thought. "No matter what happens, I can't push him again."

His thoughts were broken by the sound of the door opening. The man Smith had stationed in the hallway stuck his head in, and said, "The girl's here with the food. I checked her out."

"Let her in then," said Smith. Lisa Johnson entered, pushing a cart with a cardboard box and some packages of bottled water. Smith gestured. "Put them on the table." Lisa began to unload the box, setting out wrapped bundles on the table. Don could see her trying to scan the room as she did so. He knew she would have been instructed to assess the situation and bring information back. He glanced at Charlie, and a thought occurred to him.

He spoke to Smith, trying to make his voice sound non-threatening and unassuming. "When Agent Anderson returns," he suggested, "it might be a good idea to send Charlie with her. His ribs are broken. He needs medical attention." He saw Charlie's head lift out of the corner of his eye, but he was focused on Smith, who turned and smiled.

"You know, Eppes," he said smoothly, "I was thinking of releasing one of you as a gesture of goodwill. I really do not need Miss Marcy anymore – we know how to handle the equipment now." He looked at Marcy. "How about that, missy? Would you like to get out of here?"

Marcy looked uncertainly towards Don. "If only one of us can go, I think Dr. Eppes should go," she said.

Megan spoke up. "Why don't you let both of them go? They're both civilians – you don't have any beef with them."

Smith smiled, his eyes cold. "I'm afraid I can't let Dr. Eppes go just yet," he said, looking at Charlie. "I may need his assistance later."

------------------End Chapter 6------------------------------------------------------


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Bob Tompkins rubbed the back of his head in frustration. The oversight committee meeting had started at 8:00 with the briefing on the situation in L.A. Bob had made it clear from the start that because of the new situation in L.A. and the increased risk to yet more citizens, he was switching his stance on the issue, and that he now sided with the half of the group that was advocating freedom for the militia group at Yakima. He noted for the record that the new situation now had impact on matters of national security because of Charlie's involvement, and briefed the group on the work Charlie had done for the NSA in the past. In spite of his and the other's arguments, there were still some holdouts on the other side that refused to consider giving in to the gunmen's demands, and the debate had grown more heated. It was now three hours later. The group had just agreed that they would extend the meeting as long as necessary, with an hour break at noon for members to take care of any pressing matters and to grab a working lunch, and then reconvene at 1:00. Tompkins sighed. It was going to be a long day.

An aide entered the room, with some papers, which he handed to the FBI Director. They spoke briefly; then the Director turned to the group. "Apparently, the militia group in L.A. has given us a deadline," he said. They want their men in Yakima released by 5:00 pm their time."

One of the White House staffers asked, "Did they communicate by video conference again?" Her unspoken question was, "Does the media have this?"

"No," replied the Director. "Apparently AD Merrick got this demand just moments ago via phone. As far as we know, the media doesn't know about it. In the interests of the deadline, I suggest we cancel plans for the break at noon." As the group nodded agreement, Tompkins looked at the clock. They had about four hours to come to an understanding. He was quite sure that it was not going to be enough time.

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Marcy's release was a media sensation. She left the building, escorted by Lisa Johnson and several other agents, and made the walk across the street to the Hyde Park Hotel. Throngs of reporters, now from national news stations along with the local ones, screamed from behind the barriers for comments, and cameras zoomed in for close-ups as the newscasters furiously spun the story. LAPD was hard pressed to keep people behind the barriers, and as the group neared the front door of the hotel, a crush of reporters surged forward and surrounded them. In the ensuing confusion, two CalSci professors slipped behind the crowd and through the doors.

"Larry, where's your badge?" said Amita, looking around nervously.

She had lectured Larry about keeping the visitor's badge he had obtained on their last visit to the FBI offices, when he should have turned it in as he left. Now, though, she was glad he had it. This afternoon, after their classes were over, they had tried to contact Alan Eppes for news. When they couldn't raise him, they decided to come downtown on their own. Amita still wasn't sure that it was a good idea, but waiting and not knowing anything was intolerable. She watched Larry fumble for his badge.

"Ah, here it is," he exclaimed, finally pulling it from a pocket in his bag. He clipped it on, the letters 'FBI' displayed prominently. They saw agents going in and out of Ballroom A and headed towards the doorway

Alan was standing, with his elbow resting in one hand and the other covering his mouth, watching the video monitor in the ballroom. In a somewhat surreal turn of events, the monitor had live footage of what was going on right outside the doors of the hotel. Alan squelched a feeling of disappointment that it had not been one of his boys that had been released. He was chiding himself that it was a turn of good fortune that they were starting to release people at all, when he heard his name. He turned to see Larry and Amita approaching him through the crowd. When they got to him, they stopped. For a moment, no one said anything. Then Amita stepped forward and gave Alan a hug that said more than words could possibly convey.

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After Marcy and Lisa left the conference room, two of the men guarding them had passed out sandwiches. The agents ate theirs mechanically, knowing from training that in the field that you ate when you could, out of necessity for fuel. Charlie, on the other hand, had a difficult time getting his down. He didn't eat well on a good day, and the pain in his chest and stress of the situation made food almost impossible to contemplate. He choked down a bite or two and laid his sandwich back in its wrapper.

Don watched Charlie lay his head back against the wall. "I'm sorry we didn't get you out of here," he said quietly.

"It's okay," Charlie said, looking down. A few moments before, all he could think of was getting out of there. When the offer came, however, and it didn't include Don, he wasn't sure he wanted to go. He knew being on the outside with Don still a captive would have been unbearable, so he was almost relieved when Smith nixed the idea. He wondered for umpteenth time what Smith wanted him to do, and sighed deeply without thinking. A spasm of pain flashed across his face, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Smith had wolfed down his sandwich and had gone back to pacing. This was all moving much, much slower than he wanted it to. A few moments earlier, knowing that the governmental decision-making would grind on indefinitely if they were not pushed, he had picked up the phone in impatience, called Merrick and establishing a deadline of 5:00 pm. As he paced, he watched the news coverage of Marcy's release. He needed to know how that was playing to the public. His goal was to make them sympathetic to his cause by showing mercy. What he feared was that the government or the media would see the release as a sign of weakness. He muttered impatiently under his breath. He could sense the familiar feelings of rage beginning to grow, and he tried to stifle it as he paced.

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Merrick had passed on the latest demands to Washington. Earlier, he had gotten direction from them concerning the media. He had proposed getting injunctions to prevent the news stations from calling into any more of the video conferences. Washington had shot that down. "Probably afraid of a freedom-of-the-press controversy," Merrick thought sourly. He had assigned a team to look at ways to possibly get into the conference room via a swat operation. They had just finished briefing him, and the conclusion was that it was far too risky.

He looked at the clock and the time jumped out at him – 3:10 pm. He had heard nothing from Washington, and was currently at a standstill. He knew that families of the hostages were waiting for information. He had put this off, admittedly, but knew that he no longer had an excuse. He spent another half hour on the phone, talking to Megan's and Colby's families, and David's sister, telling them what little they knew. Sighing, he picked up Alan Eppes' card from the desk, and headed downstairs to the ballroom. He had a little over an hour before the deadline.

Amita noticed a subtle shift in the agents in the ballroom, who suddenly began to straighten up and look busy. Looking in the direction of the door, she saw Assistant Director Merrick coming toward them. "Mr. Eppes," she said, nodding towards Merrick. Alan turned; his heart in his throat.

Merrick stepped up and stuck out his hand, and Alan took it. "Mr. Eppes," Merrick said by way of greeting. He eyed Larry's badge. Larry saw the look, colored furiously, and turned sideways, scratching his head. "Professors," said Merrick, nodding at them. He knew both of them from their work with Charlie on previous cases. He looked back at Alan. "I assume you have been keeping up on the situation from the news broadcasts. I'm afraid I do not have much more to add to that, but I will tell you what I know. Your sons are being held, along with agents Reeves, Granger, and Sinclair, in a conference room in the FBI offices. Their captors demand…"

"I know all that," broke in Alan impatiently. "It's on the news. What I want to know is, how are my sons?"

Merrick cleared his throat uncomfortably. "We sent in an agent with food at lunchtime and she got a chance to see the hostages. We've had a chance to talk to her and also to Marcy Sherwood, the hostage that was released. Your sons are both alive. Don, in fact, appears to be doing well."

Alan's heart sank. "What about Charlie?"

Merrick paused. "There was an altercation this morning, just prior to the video conference. Charlie was assaulted and has apparently sustained some broken ribs. He was unconscious, very briefly, and is in pain, but has managed to sit up, and is able to communicate." He looked at Alan, Amita and Larry, all of whom had gone silent at the news. "We are doing everything we can to get them out."

"Are you?" asked Alan bitterly. He almost immediately looked remorseful. "I'm sorry. I know you are personally affected by this too. I just don't trust that our government is going to make the right decisions."

Merrick had his own doubts. What he said instead was, "They have been meeting in Washington since 8:00 this morning, their time. They are not adjourning until they come to a decision." He refrained from telling Alan about the deadline – the man had enough on his mind. He politely excused himself, and left the ballroom. He needed to get back to the phones.

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Five o'clock was approaching, and Smith was beside himself. He had tried calling Merrick directly, but the lines were busy. He had resumed his bearish pacing, thinking furiously that he had been snubbed. Megan watched him with trepidation. "That man definitely has some anger management issues," she thought. She glanced sideways at Don. He too, had his eyes on Smith, and his brow was furrowed. She flicked a glance at Charlie. He was pale, watching Smith nervously, and when the phone rang suddenly, he flinched.

Smith grabbed the phone immediately. "I am assuming that you are calling to tell me the arrangements you are making for the release of my men," he growled into the phone. There was a pause, and Smith's face turned a deeper shade of red. "What do you mean, they have no decision? They were given a deadline! You tell them in no uncertain terms, that they cannot ignore the rules, or there will be consequences to pay. The next time we talk will be via video conference. I want you, and them, to call in at exactly 5:30!" He slammed down the phone. "Shit!" he exploded. He walked over to the corner, shoulders heaving. "You need to calm down," he told himself, as he struggled for composure. "You need to be ready for this." After a few breaths, he turned and went back to the phone, and immediately began dialing the news stations.

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Word of the video conference spread like wildfire through the crowd outside and spilled into the hotel. Alan, Amita, and Larry headed for the nearest monitor and stationed themselves, as the ballroom filled with agents and others wanting to see the spectacle. Alan waited impatiently, his stomach in a knot. As he stood, he heard agents behind him saying something about a deadline.

"Excuse me," he said turning. "There is a deadline of some sort?"

The agent paused. "It's okay, he's with me," Larry offered, showing his badge. Amita winced.

The agent gave him a dubious look, but addressed Alan. "There was a five o'clock deadline given by the militia group for the government to release their men in Yakima. It's come and gone – I'm guessing that that is what the video conference is about."

"Did they release them?" asked Alan.

The agent shook his head and shrugged. "You know as much as I do. Maybe that's what they're going to tell us."

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Smith approached Charlie, flanked by two of his men, and stood over him. "Dr. Eppes," he said, "I have a simple task for you."

Don scowled at Smith. "Charlie is in no condition to do anything right now," he said brusquely. "Pick someone else." Belatedly he remembered his vow to avoid angering Smith. "One of us would be glad to do it," he said in a more conciliatory tone.

Smith regarded Don, dislike apparent in his face. "I'm afraid that only Dr. Eppes will do. All I need is for him to stand beside me during the video conference. He can lean against that post for support if he has to." He indicated the square support pillar next to the video equipment. "We have five minutes before call-in. Stand up, Dr. Eppes."

Charlie looked at Don uncertainly. "Stand up!" bellowed Smith. He grabbed Charlie's arm and hauled him to his feet, as Charlie gasped in pain. Don immediately jumped to his own feet, but was restrained by the two guards. Smith pushed his face toward Don, sneering. "Do you really want to cause trouble again? You remember how that turned out the last time." Charlie, who was pale from a wave of dizziness, turned even paler at that comment.

Don's gut twisted, and he lifted his hands slightly. "Okay. Calm down."

"Sit down." Smith commanded. Don pulled away from the guards and sat back down against the wall, with a venomous glance at Smith.

Smith pulled Charlie by the arm over to the post and pushed him against it. "Stay there, and do not move. Do not speak unless I tell you to," Smith ordered. Charlie didn't have to worry about moving, it was all he could do just to stand there. The sudden movements had spasms of pain shooting through his chest again, and he fought to control his breathing as he leaned against the post. Smith motioned to the three guards to join them. "We'll need to bring Billy in here and leave the door unguarded while this is going on." He spoke quietly, but Charlie could hear the conversation. Smith went on, "I want two of you on those three, and two of you on Eppes, and I mean right next to him. He's not going to like this."

Charlie paled, and looked at Don uncertainly. Don saw the look and frowned. "What the hell is Smith up to?" he wondered uneasily. The fourth guard came into the room and they took their positions around the agents. Don exchanged worried, puzzled looks with his team. It was 5:03. A minute later, the call-in came.

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The news stations had come on with the live update several minutes before 5:00 and the newscasters prepped their audience by rehashing the story to date. One of the stations filled the time by interviewing bystanders outside on the street. One of the men interviewed obliged by giving his opinion. "You know," he told the newscaster, "if these guys were terrorists, I could see the government not wanting to negotiate, but these are just some poor slobs that were doing target practice in the middle of nowhere. They weren't hurting anyone. And now the government goes and turns this into a big showdown, and people are going to get hurt. They should just let 'em go."

"Amen to that," thought Alan, watching the interview. His heart took a wild leap as the anchor came on the screen with her hand to her ear, saying "Okay, we have live feed, we're going now to the live video of the conference room."

Smith materialized on the screen, and Alan's heart jumped again as he saw Charlie standing behind Smith, a bit to the side. His son looked pale, and he could see the lines of pain in his face, but he was glad to see him on his feet. Smith was addressing Merrick and the committee in Washington, but it looked as though he was talking directly to the American public. The effect was disconcerting.

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In the conference room, Smith began speaking angrily into the monitor. Charlie could only see video of Merrick's conference room on the screen, but he was acutely aware that Washington, and possibly much of America, was on line and could see him. He shrank against the post, and tried to control his legs, which were beginning to tremble. "Let me first make clear," Smith growled, "that the United States government has yet to negotiate in good faith. You were given a deadline of 5:00 pm four hours ago to release the men in Yakima. Not only did you not release them, you did not bother to ask for an extension or give any reason why you did not comply." His voice was becoming louder as he spoke, and the next sentence came out as suppressed scream. "That is _completely_ unacceptable! There are still five hostages in this room, four agents and one civilian, who you see behind me. Do you think there will not be repercussions from this?!"

A voice came over the monitor, undoubtedly from Washington, because no one in Merrick's group could be seen speaking. "Please understand; we have been meeting on this all day. You are not going to turn over longstanding policy in a few hours time. We are all working towards a resolution of this matter."

"They're playing me," Smith thought furiously. He glanced sideways and saw a look of grim satisfaction on Don's face. That look pushed him over the edge. He felt rage rising like a red mist in his head. Suddenly he turned, and put his left shoulder into Charlie's chest, pinning him against the post, and turned his head toward the monitor. He lifted his right hand, which contained a lethal looking switchblade. He placed the point of it at Charlie's neck. "Do you think I won't make them pay?" he raged into the monitor.

Charlie's chest was pinned tightly against the post, and waves of pain coursed through his left side. He felt a shock of fear as he saw the blade, and as it touched his neck, he froze, trying to remain as still as possible. His heart felt ready to pound out of his chest, and he looked wildly for Don, who had jumped to his feet again and was being restrained by the guards.

"You think I won't carry through!" Smith continued, ranting. "You think I won't cut him? Well, think again!" With a roar of anger he turned and plunged the knife into Charlie's shoulder.

"No!" Don screamed. Charlie gasped in pain and shock, and turned his head sideways, his face contorted in pain. Smith deliberately twisted the knife in the wound with a deranged smile, watching Charlie writhe in pain, and turned back toward the monitor. "YOU did this, Washington," he roared, pointing the bloody blade at the screen. "YOU did it. That was his shoulder. The next time it goes in his chest! Your deadline is now midnight. All of my men need to be out of there and clear by midnight, or one of your people dies." He reached forward and flicked off the monitor, ending the call.

He stepped back, panting heavily, and Charlie crumpled to the floor. Smith gave him a kick. "Get him back over there," he said to his men. "Sit down!" he roared at the captives. David, Megan and Colby had also risen to their feet when the knife was produced, and the guards had guns leveled at their heads. They and Don slowly lowered themselves to the floor, and two of the guards grabbed Charlie, his head lolling, and dragged him towards them.

-----------------------End Chapter 7------------------------------------------------


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Alan had watched Smith's on-screen combustion with growing panic. When he saw the knife flash and enter Charlie's shoulder, everything grew hazy. He was dimly aware of people helping him to a seat, and heard someone say "That's his father." Someone bent him over his knees and he began taking deep breaths. The haze finally cleared, but not the horrendous sense of dread. He sat up shakily. Amita was on a chair next to him, tears streaming down her face. Larry was frantically hovering over the two of him, grief apparent in his face. Several agents were standing behind Larry, watching them with concern.

Alan gripped Larry's arm fiercely. "What happened?"

Larry was confused. Surely Alan had seen –"What?"

"What happened? What happened after –," Alan couldn't bring himself to say it.

One of the agents spoke up. "The broadcast went off the air as soon as he was stabbed, sir."

Larry finally understood what Alan was asking. He said gently, "The newscaster came on and said the broadcast was being stopped due the graphic nature –," he stopped. "He said they would tape it, edit it and run it later."

"You mean you don't know what happened after that?" Alan repeated, panicked, looking from Larry to the agent, who just looked at each other. Alan jumped to his feet. "I need to know what happened to my son!" he roared. The big ballroom fell silent.

One of the other agents spoke up. "The video conference was still going on upstairs," he said. "I'll go up and see if I can find out anything."

Alan sat down heavily as his knees shook beneath him. "Please –," he paused, looking for a prayer. "Hurry," he finished quietly.

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In Washington, there was total silence as the video conference ended. One of the staffers broke it with a horrified, "Oh my God."

"Jesus," breathed Tompkins to himself.

Geoffrey Whitlock was an older statesman, and had been one of the strongest voices for not releasing the men at Yakima. He addressed the group as a thought occurred to him, "Perhaps this will turn public sentiment against them. We should watch the polls for a few hours –,"

Bob Tompkins slammed the table with his hand and jumped to his feet. "God damn it, we don't have a few hours! Think about it," he exclaimed angrily. "Even if we acted now, it would take time to get communication up to Yakima, and at least two hours, maybe more, for our people to get out of there. The people in the cabin have to have time to clear out of there. All of it has to be done by midnight their time. You know," he continued, unconsciously echoing the opinions of the man that had been interviewed in the street, "these are not terrorists. They are American citizens that admittedly broke a relatively minor law, and we have managed to blow this up into something far bigger than it needs to be. Let them go – put out wanted posters and track them down individually later if you have to – but let's be done with this before someone else gets hurt."

The group looked at each other. Whitlock finally cleared his head and spoke. "I go on the record as saying that this flies in the face of United States negotiation policy. However, under the circumstances, I reluctantly agree." He looked at the others that had taken his side. They nodded.

All eyes turned to the Director of the FBI. "So be it," he said. "I will instruct my people in Yakima to pull out immediately, and have Merrick contact Smith." He turned to one of the White House staffers. "You may want to inform the President of our decision, and arrange for a press release."

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Colby had military training for field first aid, and had more experience with trauma when he was in military service than he cared to think about. He took charge of Charlie without thinking, as the others clustered around anxiously. He gently pulled off Charlie's jacket and then pried his left arm out of his T-shirt, which was already saturated with blood on one side, and inspected the wound. He turned to the guard standing behind them and barked, "I need some napkins."

The guard turned without question and grabbed a stack of them out of the sandwich box. Colby unbuttoned his shirt; unaware and uncaring that he was leaving bloody fingerprints all down the front of it, and stripped off the sleeveless T-shirt underneath. He threw his shirt back on, unbuttoned, and took a thick stack of napkins and laid them on the wound. He then bound up Charlie's shoulder tightly with the undershirt, and slid Charlie's arm back in his T-shirt. He looked up at Don, who was kneeling next to Charlie, and spoke quietly. "It's high up enough on the shoulder so that it shouldn't be anywhere near the lung. It's bleeding pretty good, but it's not gushing, so that means no major veins or arteries were hit. It's a serious wound, but not life-threatening." He looked down at Charlie, who had a light sheen of sweat on his face and was beginning to shake, and thought with concern, "Shock is another story."

Charlie felt cold, and the roaring was starting in his ears again. The lack of food and sleep, combined with his injuries, was taking its toll. He began to shake uncontrollably. Colby covered Charlie's chest with his jacket. "He's shocky," he said brusquely. "David, give me your jacket." David stripped off his jacket and Colby laid it on Charlie's legs. Don looked down anxiously at his brother trembling on the cold floor, and then up at Megan. He had a look on his face that Megan had never seen before. It was a combination of fear and helplessness; Megan had never seen him show either emotion - and certainly not both at once.

Don looked down again, and suddenly lifted Charlie under the arms and sat, with Charlie's back against his chest, and his arms around Charlie's torso. The jackets slid off with the movement. "Put them back on," said Don gruffly, and Megan arranged the jackets over Charlie again. Colby nodded – Don's body heat would help. Don could feel his brother trembling violently in his arms.

The guard came over and said quietly to the rest of them, "Okay, go back and sit." They did as he asked, but their eyes remained on Charlie and Don.

Smith took in the scene, brooding, from the corner. He had gone much further with his little demonstration than he intended to – he had planned on merely threatening Charlie with the knife. Not that he cared what happened to his hostages, but if he had turned public opinion against his cause….Damn them for baiting him. Damn Eppes and his smug looks. "They pushed me," he thought angrily, "and look what happened." He shook his head impatiently. Well, it was done now. He looked up, startled, as the conference room phone rang.

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With an effort, Amita choked back her tears. Alan needed support, she thought, and this is not helping him. She and Charlie had only recently started dating, and to be truthful, she hadn't known how she felt about that, or Charlie either for that matter. Charlie was sometimes noncommittal, maybe not on purpose, she thought – he would just get sidetracked so easily with his work, and dating him was honestly sometimes frustrating. Tonight though, seeing him on the screen, hurt, she realized suddenly that she felt more strongly about him than she had thought. A silent prayer caught in her throat, and she felt tears welling up again. She wiped her eyes again, and saw the agent coming back towards them. She sat up, and touched Alan's arm.

Alan looked up quickly. The agent squatted down in front of them and spoke quietly. "You saw the worst of it," he said. "At least during the rest of the conference, he didn't use the knife again. Smith said he stabbed him in the shoulder. When we played the tape back slowly, it looked like he was telling the truth. We don't think it is a life-threatening injury." He looked around him to be sure no one else was close by. "There's something else, he said, "but you can't let on that you know or it will cost me my job. A call came from Washington when I was up there. They've agreed to let the men in Yakima go."

"Thank God," whispered Alan, and he looked heavenward.

"Keep it quiet for half an hour," said the agent. "They're planning a press release at 7:00."

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Smith hung up the phone, and the conference room erupted. He and his men were yelling and slapping each other on the back. "They're going to call back with more details in five minutes," Smith told them. He pulled them aside and began to talk quietly.

"How about that, Charlie?" said Don in Charlie's ear. We're going to get out of here." Charlie's tremors were quieting, and roaring in his ears had diminished. He still felt weak and shaky, but he was afraid he was too heavy to be leaning against his brother for so long, and he leaned forward. "Whoa," said Don, "take it easy. Are you okay?" He craned his neck, trying to see Charlie's face.

"Yeah," said Charlie. "I think I can sit up by myself." He shivered. "Can you help me get my jacket on?"

"Charlie, you don't need to prove anything. Just sit back."

"I'm okay," insisted Charlie. "I just need my jacket." Don frowned, but he helped Charlie into his jacket; then pulled himself out from behind him. Charlie moved back towards the wall gingerly, trying to put all his weight on his right hand, and let loose a small grunt of pain as he leaned back against it, his eyes closed. He shivered again, and Don pulled David's jacket over his legs. Don looked up as the phone rang again.

Merrick was on the line, and Smith put him on speaker phone. "We have just communicated with our field command at Yakima," came Merrick's voice, "and instructed them to start pulling out their people. They estimate that it will take two to two-and-a-half hours to get everyone to stand down and move them out of the area. After that your people will be free to go. They will leave with no restrictions. I am assuming they have transportation?"

"Yes," said Smith. "Unless you've done something with the vehicles they came in."

Merrick ignored Smith's smart remark. "We have not had phone contact with them," he went on. "If they have phones, they have not been using them to communicate with us. We need to have a way to tell them what is going on, and when it will be okay for them to vacate the premises. Do you have a way to contact them?"

"Yes, I can get in touch with them." Smith smiled at his men in triumph. "I will tell them, but get me the number of your field commander, so they can confirm with him also."

"Very well," said Merrick, "we now need to talk about the release of your hostages, and the arrangements for your group here."

"First of all," said Smith, "we are not going anywhere until the Yakima move is completed, and I have phone confirmation from my men that they are away safely and are not being followed. I will want a check-in from them as they leave, and another at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. I will instruct them how to do this when I call them."

"Concerning our arrangements," he continued. "I will need a vehicle that seats six outside the doors of this building at – let's make it 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. That should give you plenty of time to make arrangements."

"Seats six?" questioned Merrick.

"When we leave this building, we will leave with one of the hostages, for insurance purposes" stated Smith. Charlie opened his eyes at this statement, and Don exchanged glances with his team. "When we feel we are safely away, we will drop the hostage off, and you can pick him up."

"That is unacceptable," growled Merrick.

"Unacceptable or not, those are our terms," said Smith smugly.

"Who do you plan to take with you?"

Smith turned and eyed the group against the wall. "Well, I guess you'll find that out tomorrow, now won't you?" he smiled.

---------------------End Chapter 8---------------------------------------------


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

It was about 9:30 in the evening, and Alan, Amita, and Larry were still in the ballroom. Earlier, Amita had talked them into finding something to eat – none of them had eaten anything since breakfast. Alan was in no mood for food, but he let Amita's common sense prevail, and somehow choked down soup and a bit of bread from the hotel café. They were waiting for the evening's newscast, when Alan spied Merrick headed toward them across the floor.

Alan stood as Merrick approached. Merrick nodded. "How are you holding up?" he asked.

Alan shrugged and shook his head. He had no words for a reply.

Merrick eyed him for a moment, and when he got no response, stepped forward, pulled a chair around to face their seats, and sat. Larry and Amita were already sitting, and Alan followed suit. Merrick spoke. "The hotel has been kind enough to offer rooms for our use this evening."

Alan smiled mirthlessly. "Well, I can't imagine that they're fully booked."

Merrick allowed a tiny smile of his own. "No. At any rate, I've gotten a couple of extra rooms for the three of you – if you and Professor Fleinhart don't mind sharing a room. You're free to go home if you want, but I wanted to leave you the option in case you wanted to stay here."

Alan felt a small surge of gratitude. "Thank you. That's very kind." He looked at Merrick. "You didn't come down here personally to tell us that."

Merrick sighed and looked at his feet, then back up. He glanced around, and then leaned forward slightly. "No, the fact is, I felt I owed you an update. Our people up in Washington are in the process of packing up and pulling out. We have made arrangements to contact the ADU group up there, and they know that they will be allowed to leave this evening. We expect they will be out of there well before the midnight deadline. We have also made arrangements for the release of the hostages here." Larry, Amita and Alan all straightened and glanced at each other.

Merrick continued. "Smith has set some conditions around the release."

"What conditions?" asked Alan.

Merrick paused and looked down again. He lifted his head. "Smith wants a vehicle in front the FBI offices at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning for them to use."

Alan shifted impatiently. "So that is when he plans to release them?"

Merrick looked Alan in the eye. "Yes, for all but one. He plans to take one with him."

Alan's heart lurched. "Who?" The word came out as a hoarse rasp.

"We don't know. He won't tell us. He is promising that when they are safely away, the hostage will be released, and we can pick him, or her, up." He studied Alan's face for a moment. "I'm sorry. I know this is difficult. I just thought you should know. Things have a way of leaking out to the press on this, and I didn't want you to hear it from the television again."

Alan shook his head. "Don't be sorry. We appreciate the fact that you took the time to do this." He spoke politely and calmly, but could feel fear again gripping him inside. Merrick stood and nodded, and Alan watched him make his way out, thinking about the latest turn of events, and wondering what else was in store.

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The evening dragged on with excruciating slowness. Smith had been on and off the phone periodically, making arrangements, and the rest of them were relegated to doing nothing. Don watched Charlie carefully. He could see that Charlie was still in pain, but he seemed to have stabilized. The guards dug into the cardboard box for food; there had been several extra sandwiches that weren't eaten at lunchtime, and they passed them out. Don opened up a sandwich for Charlie, but he took one whiff of somewhat ripe pastrami and his stomach churned. He shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

Megan looked at Charlie with concern and turned to the guards. "Hey, is there anything else in that box besides sandwiches?" she asked. She tilted her head at Charlie. "He hasn't eaten anything all day."

A guard replied with a mouthful of sandwich. "That's his problem."

Megan stood up and walked toward the box. The guard scowled and leveled his gun at her. "Relax," she said, unperturbed. "I'm just going to see what's in here."

The guard looked at her perplexed, and then at the other guards. One of them shrugged. Megan rummaged around in the box and found some granola bars and brought them over to where Don and Charlie sat. Colby and David watched her with appreciation. "Girl's got guts," thought Colby.

Megan squatted and un-wrapped a granola bar, and held it out to Charlie, who had opened his eyes and was watching her. "Here," she said quietly, "you'd better eat this. I had to brave the idiot brigade to get it." A small smile made it to Charlie's face in spite of his pain, and he took the granola bar with a slightly shaking hand. Megan grinned at him and went back to her seat. Charlie managed to get the bar down, with several sips of water, and felt some of the shakiness leave. The minutes dragged by.

At 11:20, the call came through to Smith that his men had left the cabin and were safely on the road. Smith instructed the caller to have the rest of them check in at 2:00 a.m., and then for the caller to then check in with Smith. At about 12:30 he commanded two of his guards to stand watch, one inside the room, and one outside, and turned out the lights. Smith and the other two guards settled down on the other side of the room to sleep. The only illumination in the room came from outside light that streamed in from a strip of windows high above the hostages' heads, and from a small blinking light on the computer. Charlie leaned his head back and tried to sleep; but found it impossible to achieve anything deeper than a light doze. Oddly enough, immediately after the stabbing, his shoulder had not hurt that much; his ribs had actually been much worse. As the night wore on, however, his shoulder started to throb, and reversed positions with his ribs on the pain scale. His whole left side ached. He shifted constantly, trying to find a comfortable position.

Don, too, dozed fitfully. At 2:15 a.m. Smith's cell phone rang, effectively ending any thought that Don had of sleep. Smith spoke briefly, hung up and went back to his corner. Don stared at a patch of light on the floor, brooding. His mind went back to the morning, to when Smith and his men had entered the offices. He went over and over the incident, trying to determine whether he could have done anything differently that would have kept them out of the situation that they were in now.

He glanced at Charlie, who had his head against the wall and his eyes closed. Was he asleep? Don doubted it; Charlie was holding his head up against the wall; it would have tilted to the side if he were asleep. He felt a gnawing concern again as he looked at him, worrying about his injuries. He wondered how many people had seen the broadcast when his brother was stabbed – "Oh, my God," he thought with a shock. "Dad." He groaned internally, and prayed fervently that his father had not seen that. He wondered what his dad was doing now.

His thoughts strayed back to the morning. When he first came in, the only thought on his mind was the case involving the drug-related slayings. It seemed like light years ago. With a small shock, he remembered his argument with Charlie. Guilt settled on him like a cloud. He hated the fact that the last thing he had done before all this happened was to yell at his brother. He had never gotten a chance to apologize. He cringed as he remembered the shocked look on Charlie's face. With a small groan, he closed his eyes, wrestling with his thoughts and his worries.

Charlie was grappling with dark thoughts of his own. Smith terrified him – he had been the subject of two of Smith's rages, and feared the possibility of another. Even more than that, he was worried about Don. Smith hated Don; it was obvious even to Charlie, who not an experienced judge of character or of expressions. The man was completely unpredictable – what if he turned that rage against Don?

He thought back to the morning – he felt that he had embarrassed Don in front of his team by barging into Don's meeting. "How stupid was that?" he thought. "After he told me not to." He had felt that he and Don were gradually getting closer, but this morning showed that they were still not on the same wavelength. That was his fault, he felt. The last thing he did before all of this happened was to put more distance between them. And now – what if something happened to one of them? They were just starting to get to a place where they had something of a relationship – something he had craved since he was small. It wasn't fair. He felt tears sting his eyes; a few of them slipped out unbidden, and he swallowed, trying to force them back.

Don heard the small sound beside him, opened his eyes and turned his head. In the reflected light, he saw a tear trace down Charlie's cheek, then another. "Hey," he said softly, "are you okay?"

Charlie didn't look at him. "Yeah," he whispered, and rubbed his hand over his face. He closed his eyes. Don frowned, waiting, but when Charlie didn't respond he leaned back and closed his eyes also.

"Don." Don's head jerked back up again and he found Charlie staring at him with a somber expression, eyes dark and large in the dim light. For a moment, Charlie looked just like he did as a young boy, when he had something weighing on his mind.

"Yeah, Charlie."

"If I-," he began, then started again, emotion playing over his features. "If something happens, and I don't make it out of here, I want you to tell Dad – tell Dad I'm sorry, and I love him."

Don's face softened. "Charlie, you can tell him yourself. You're going to make it out of here – trust me, you'll be walking out of here this morning."

Charlie closed his eyes to ward off more tears, and shook his head. Eyes still closed, head down, he whispered, "I love you too."

Don opened his mouth to protest again, and then shut it. Instead he said softly, "I love you too, Buddy." He shifted closer to his brother, and gently pulled his head onto his shoulder. "Come here. You need to get some rest."

Megan woke a few moments later, and glanced toward Charlie. She saw them leaning on each other, the two dark heads together. She stared for a moment at the image; her heart filled with something she couldn't describe, then she drifted back off to sleep with a small smile on her lips.

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Morning arrived rudely. Smith and his men turned on the lights and began clumping around the room at 5:30, gathering their gear, packing bags, and checking weapons. Charlie awoke with a start, bleary eyed, mind foggy, and tried to focus.

Smith got on the phone with Merrick, who had been up for an hour. "Is everything set?" asked Smith. Merrick assured him that it was. "I will call you back at 6:45, with details on how we will proceed with our exit," said Smith. He hung up the phone and turned to the hostages.

Don spoke before Smith could. "I'm going with you," he stated firmly.

Charlie looked at Don wildly, and whispered, "Don, no!"

Smith ignored both of them. "Stand up – all of you, stand up," he ordered. Don stood and reached for Charlie's arm to help him up. "Don't help him," barked Smith. Charlie struggled to his feet, pushing himself up with his right arm. When Charlie gained his feet, Smith commanded, "Take three steps forward." They did. Charlie felt shaky again, but walking was easier than he expected it to be. Smith looked at all of them for a moment and then said, "Sit down."

Don scowled as they returned to their positions along the wall. What was this idiot doing, musical chairs? Did Smith not hear him?

As if Smith could read Don's mind, he turned with a malicious smile. "I was selecting which of you will accompany us this morning." His eyes rested on Charlie. "I had to see if he could walk first."

"No!" said Don, fiercely. "He is in no condition – he needs medical assistance. I volunteered. Take me."

Smith was enjoying Don's torment. "Now really," he purred, "Why would I take with me a strong able-bodied fed, who could cause who-knows-what trouble, when I can have a small, somewhat disabled, professor? There really is no contest here."

Don's gut twisted in panic, and he jumped to his feet. "I give you my word – I will comply with everything you ask. You can't take him."

Charlie saw the color start to rise in Smith's face. "Don -," said Charlie, worriedly. "Don, it's okay. He said he'd drop me off –"

Smith crossed the room in two large strides and stood face to face with Don. "You don't tell me what I can or can't do, fed," he roared. Don quivered with suppressed rage, and suddenly exploded. He threw a roundhouse punch with such force that it snapped the bigger man's head back and rocked him back on his feet, and immediately wrapped his hands around his neck. Two of the guards grabbed Don, and with a tremendous struggle dragged him off. Smith glared, panting, with one hand on his neck, then suddenly surged forward and landed a vicious punch to Don's stomach. Don doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. The other agents had jumped to their feet, held at bay by the guard with the sawed-off shotgun. Charlie struggled painfully to get up.

"Enough!" roared Smith. He jabbed a hard finger into Don's chest, who was still struggling to regain his breath. "Settle down, or I'll blow their heads off. This is exactly why I will not take you." He turned to Charlie. "Get over there." He motioned to a table by the door.

"Charlie, don't do it," gasped Don.

"Don, please," pleaded Charlie. "It'll be okay."

Don straightened, the two guards still holding his arms. "Charlie -," he said warningly, looking hard at his brother.

Charlie stood for a moment, looking back at him, and then turned and headed for the table.

"Secure them," barked Smith to the guards.

"Go over to that post, and sit around it with your backs to it," ordered one of the guards. Don and his agents hesitated.

The guard with the shotgun suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Megan by the hair, the barrels of the gun to her head. "You heard the man," he said. "Move!"

Don, Colby and David moved to the post and sat down, one on each side with their backs to it. One of the other guards grabbed handcuffs from the table and cuffed their hands to each other's. David was in the middle, facing Charlie and the door; Colby was cuffed to David's left hand and Don to David's right. Megan was pushed to the remaining side of the post, and cuffed to Don and Colby. The guard stepped back to admire his handiwork. "Ring around the rosy," he sneered.

Smith looked at his watch, still breathing hard. "Sit on the table," he ordered Charlie, who gingerly pulled himself up on the table using his good arm for leverage. Two of the guards came over and pulled duct tape out of a bag, and then pulled off Charlie's jacket roughly. "Lift your arms," said Smith.

Charlie got his right arm up, but could only raise his left part way. One of the guards grabbed it and lifted it higher, and Charlie winced in pain. The guard with the tape began wrapping it around Charlie's chest, right over his blood-stained T-shirt, eliciting new agony. When he had several wraps, he told the other guard, "Lift up his hair," and proceeded to wrap the silver tape around Charlie's neck. Although it was not overly tight, Charlie could still feel it pressing on his neck, and he fought down a gag.

Don was sitting sideways to the door, and had to turn his head to see what was happening. He watched in agony, anger and fear warring inside of him. The guard with the sawed-off shotgun walked over to the table and handed over his weapon. The muzzle was pushed against the duct tape on Charlie's right side and taped tightly to his chest. "You'll need to hold it," said the guard with the tape, handing it back to its owner. Charlie fought down rising panic as a pistol was taped to the left side of his neck. The guard stepped back. "He's ready," he said to Smith.

Smith and the remaining guard had busied themselves gathering their equipment. He turned and looked at Charlie, then said to the guards, "Make sure your safeties are on until we exit the building. We don't want to blow his head off for no reason."

Don spoke, glaring at Smith. "You said you would drop off whoever you took. You'd better keep that promise. So help me, if you do anything else to hurt him, I will hunt you down and kill you myself."

Smith sauntered over to Don and looked down at him. "I told you, I would drop him off. If he behaves, he will not be hurt. I will call you personally, when I do."

Don looked up at Smith with a glare of pure hatred. "You do that, you son-of-a-bitch."

Smith's jaw worked. He suddenly drew his leg back and kicked Don in the stomach, and as Don bent over in pain, landed another one to his jaw.

"Stop it." The words came strong and clear from across the room. Smith straightened in surprise, thinking one of his guards had spoken, and then grunted. Charlie had slid of the table to his feet, and his dark eyes bored into Smith's, his jaw set. David swung his head around to look at Charlie. He took in the small figure, flanked by the two larger ones, guns taped to his torso and his neck, standing defiantly in front of the table. "He looks just like Don," thought David, taken aback.

Don caught his breath. "Charlie-," he said warningly, then stopped to spit out a mouthful of blood and a part of his molar. He took in a breath to continue, and caught it as it hit the exposed nerve in his tooth, sending a white hot pain through his jaw. By the time he could speak, Charlie was talking again.

"If you want me to cooperate when we walk out these doors, you'll leave him alone," said Charlie steadily, his eyes fixed on Smith.

Smith smiled and walked over to Charlie. He grabbed Charlie's jaw in his big paw and lowered his face. Charlie glared back at him. "I'll stop," Smith said. "But you need to know one thing. You pull anything while we are getting in the car, we will abort, and come back inside. If that happens, I will be sure to blow your brother's head off. Do we understand each other?"

Smith stepped back and looked at his watch, then pulled out his phone and dialed Merrick. "We're ready. You need to understand these things: First, we have a hostage with guns taped to his torso and neck. You try anything at all, he will be shot. You need to keep people back off the street, away from the car. You cannot follow us. If we determine that we are being followed, the hostage will be shot. Is that clear?" He paused. "When we get to a point where we have determined we are safely away, we will drop off the hostage and inform you. Any questions? Good. Tell your men to stand down their weapons. We are coming down."

Charlie and Don looked at each other, wordlessly. The guards on either side of him grabbed Charlie's arms and turned him toward the door. The group filed out as Don watched helplessly, grief rising inside him. As the door latched with a soft click, he drew his knees to his chest and put his head down. David, looking at him sideways, was reminded of the rolled up position Charlie took when they first were brought into the room. "He looks just like Charlie," he thought.

-------------------End Chapter 9--------------------------------------------


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Charlie heard the conference room door click behind him with finality. He tried hard to hang on to his momentary bravado, but could feel his confidence slipping. Outside the elevators, Smith paused. "Let's do a final check," he said. "The lobby should be vacated, but we should be prepared if it is not. When we step on the elevator, remove your safeties and get into position." Charlie felt an involuntary chill down his spine. Smith eyed him. "Tape his hands behind him," he said. One of the guards pulled out the duct tape, and another held Charlie's arms behind his back while his wrists were taped together. Smith spoke to Charlie. "Don't try anything, and stay on your feet. If you trip, you're a dead man." He looked back at his men. "Everyone knows where they go in the vehicle?" At their nod, he hit the button for the elevator. "Good. Let's go."

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Alan had woken early that morning after a restless night. Larry was already up and pondering the universe outside of the window. He turned and looked at Alan's haggard face. "There's a beautiful sunrise," he said softly. "Perhaps that portends a positive outcome." Alan said nothing, just nodded, and went into the bathroom to wash up. As he finished, there was a knock at the door. It was Amita, who had cleaned up as best she could also and was pacing the hallway anxiously. They headed down to the lobby, which was relatively empty, as was the ballroom.

Amita looked out through the glass doors. "Everyone's outside already. They don't come out for an hour yet, and look at the crowd." Alan peered out the windows. The barricades to his left had been moved well back, with a crowd of cars and people behind them, and the ones to his right had been removed entirely and had been placed further down the block at the side streets. That opened up the street so that the vehicle could exit, he realized. He turned to look at Larry and Amita. "Perhaps we should go out," he said.

A uniformed officer stopped them as soon as they stepped out. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you can't stand here. Please step down to the left, past the barricades." They made their way down to the barricades. Alan saw Merrick positioned toward the front of them with some of his men. LAPD cars had been pulled into place behind them.

Press trucks were parked quite a distance back, out of range, cameras with zoom lenses already stationed. Looking up, Alan saw ominous figures on the roofs of the buildings, some with rifles. Leading Larry and Amita, Alan tried to move in behind the barricades close to Merrick, but was stopped by an officer in SWAT gear. "No civilians in this area, sir."

Merrick heard the comment and turned. "It's okay, officer." He stepped forward and took Alan's hand. "Mr. Eppes. I don't want you to have to go back to the press area – they'll eat you alive. However, you can't stay at the front of the barricades. Although we do not expect gunfire, these situations are unpredictable, and it would not be safe. If you want to position yourself behind the cars, you may. I need to inform you that even there, you may be taking a risk."

"I'm fine with that," said Alan, looking at Amita and Larry, who nodded affirmation.

"Very well," said Merrick. He spoke to an agent, who led them back behind the last row of LAPD vehicles. Alan craned his neck over the cars and the crowd of law enforcement people in front of him. The sight of the white Envoy parked by itself across the street caused his stomach to contract with anxiety. "Please - not one of my boys," he prayed to himself.

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The elevator doors opened. As Smith predicted, the lobby was empty. They moved in a tight group; Charlie was in the center, flanked by the two gunmen, and Smith and the other two men took positions in the front and back of the gunmen, leaving Charlie exposed in the front and back. "Keep your positions coming out of the doors," Smith commanded. They moved out of the doors, and onto the sidewalk.

Alan heard frantic shouting from behind in the press group, and he shifted position so that he could see the front of the building. He could see the group of men, but couldn't see who was with them. Not even realizing he was doing so, he started forward between the cars, pushing toward the barricade between the now preoccupied law enforcement officials, straining to see who had come out. As he reached the barricade, the group started moving forward toward the Envoy, and he caught a glimpse of the smaller figure between them. His heart contracted painfully. "Oh my God, no," he moaned. "Not Charlie." He leaned on the saw horse in front of him for support.

Merrick was on the phone with his lead man on the roof. "Can you get clean shots?"

"Negative, sir. The rest of them are blocking the shooters – we would have to shoot through the blockers to get to the gunmen. They would be able to take out the hostage, no question."

"Very well, stand down." To himself he said, "We go to plan B."

As the men reached the Envoy they split up, moving fast. For a brief moment, Charlie had an unobstructed view of the street, and the street of him. The cameramen and photographers were ecstatic – the photos and footage of the young man in the blood-stained T-shirt with guns taped to his body would be fodder for awards. For Alan, the sight was heartbreaking. Charlie turned his head towards the barriers, and looked straight into the eyes of his father. Then the gunmen pushed him carefully into the vehicle, and the doors slammed shut.

One of the men had clambered into the third seat of the vehicle, another was driving, and Smith sat in the passenger seat. Charlie was wedged in the second seat between the two gunmen. He felt his heart pounding as they pulled away from the curb, and he started to feel dizzy and out-of-breath – signs of an impending panic attack. He concentrated, trying to relax and slow his breathing, and scarcely noticed their progress down the street. After they had gone a few blocks, the men beside him began to un-tape their weapons from his body, although they held them ready. That helped a little, but didn't eliminate the knot in his stomach. "It's almost over," he kept telling himself, "They're going to drop me off." He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head that worried that they couldn't be trusted.

Smith sat back and visibly started to relax. Getting to the vehicle had been one of the biggest hurdles in the escape plan. His fingers played idly with a loose piece of plastic trim on the door handle. He frowned, looking down at the handle. It looked like the plastic had been jimmied up and replaced. He pulled on the trim panel, and it came up easily. He swore softly, picked up the device in the handle, rolled down the window and threw it out.

"What was that?" asked one of the men next Charlie.

"GPS," replied Smith. "They're tracking our position." Charlie's heart dropped – the fact that they were trying to track them meant that they thought they needed to. Did they think that Smith wouldn't keep his word?

"Not anymore," grinned the guard. "We're clean now. Maybe we can keep this vehicle."

"Don't count on it," Smith said brusquely. "We stick to the plan."

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Alan stood, not noticing the law enforcement personnel swirling past him through the barriers, or Amita and Larry behind him, Larry stunned, and Amita in tears. A group of SWAT personnel and other officers were forming in front of the FBI building doors, and Merrick was speaking to them. Alan registered, almost subconsciously, that they were getting ready to go inside, and the thought hit him like a jolt of electricity. "Don!" he thought, and he pushed through the barriers and ran across the street.

He recognized one of the agents from the ballroom, who put up his hand when he saw Alan. "Mr. Eppes," he said, "You can't go in there until they clear the building."

"My son -," began Alan, but the agent cut him off.

"I know sir," he said. "Just give us a few minutes. I'll come down and get you myself."

Alan turned, groaning inwardly. His legs suddenly felt like they would not support him and he sat down heavily on the curb, his head in his hands. Some of the press had taken advantage of the confusion and had pushed through. One of them snapped Alan's picture. He turned to Amita, who was standing behind Alan. "Who is that?" he asked, pointing to Alan. Amita said nothing and instead rewarded him with a dark look. The man shrugged, and waited with the others gathering outside.

Merrick and the tactical teams had made it to the conference room in a matter of minutes. His heart gave a great leap as he saw that his agents were alive and well. He studied Don's face, as the men released them from their handcuffs. "Well, maybe not well," he conceded. He made a mental note to make sure they were all referred for psychiatric help. He stepped forward and put his arm around Don. "Let's get you the hell out of this room," he said.

They set up a triage area in one of the other conference rooms, and had paramedics examine the agents. They all insisted they were fine, including Don, who had bruises on his stomach and a purple goose egg starting on his jaw. Megan, Colby and David watched Don with concern; his face was closed, almost expressionless, except for something indefinable in his eyes.

"You probably should get that jaw looked at, and you'll need a crown on that tooth," said the paramedic examining Don.

Don pushed the man's hand away impatiently. "Are we done here?" he growled. "We have work to do." He buttoned his shirt and stood up from the table.

"Donnie," came a voice from the door, cracking with emotion. Don looked up to see his father, and was immediately enveloped in a tight embrace. His father was crying, and Don could feel tears start in his own eyes, and he choked them back. "Dad," he said. The others glanced at each other, then filed from the room. "I can't cry," thought Don. "I don't have time to break down."

They separated, and Alan looked at him. He raised a hand toward Don's face and let it hover for a moment. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Don brusquely and looked at his feet. He looked back up at Alan. "We're gonna find him, Dad."

Alan nodded, tears in his eyes. "I know you will, Donnie."

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The office was already back up and running. Merrick, Megan, Colby and David were clustered around two technicians on computers. Amita and Larry had joined Don and Alan, and they approached the group.

"We've got them on GPS tracking," said Merrick. "They found and ditched the decoy tracker we placed in the armrest, but we have two others installed. They're headed west at the moment."

"They're stopping," said the technician at the computer.

"Do you have a position?"

The tech consulted a screen. "It looks like a convenience store on Westmoreland."

"Get a unit in the vicinity," said Merrick, "but not too close."

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The Envoy pulled into a parking lot behind a convenience store. Charlie's heart leaped. Could they be dropping him off already? The guard to his right opened the door, and pulled Charlie out by his arm. The lot was enclosed, surrounded by windowless brick buildings; the only entrance ran next to the convenience store. Another group of people were standing in the lot and they greeted Smith and his men with back-slapping and high fives. One of them was a woman. She glanced at Charlie and then stepped forward and gave one of the guards a hug. Smith turned to one of his men. "Get moving," he said, "We don't have a lot of time." The man headed around to the front of the store.

Another guard pulled Charlie toward a dark blue van, and slid open the door. "Get in the back," he commanded. Charlie hesitated, turning. He could see the other people getting into the Envoy. "Move!" said the guard and gave Charlie a push in his battered ribs. Charlie gasped, and climbed awkwardly into the back of the van, his hands still taped behind him. It was dirty and stripped down, a utility van with no windows in the back. He sat down heavily on the floor. Smith and two of the guards climbed into the back with him and sat on boxes. The remaining guard jumped into the driver's seat. "Is he going with us or with them?" he asked, referring to the man who had gone into the convenience store.

"With them," snapped Smith. "Get moving." The van pulled out of the lot, leaving the Envoy behind.

End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The group gathered around the screen, watching the blinking light that was the Envoy intently. "It's moving again," said the technician. Don watched the blip on the screen. It was now headed for a rough part of town, a Latino district. Close to one of the drug-slayings, Don thought.

"They must have stopped for food and water at the convenience store," said Colby.

Don's heart jumped. "What if they dropped him off there?"

Merrick frowned. "Already? Not likely. There's one way to find out."

Megan headed for a phone. "I'm on it," she said. "Westmoreland, right?" Don watched her impatiently as she dialed and spoke to someone on the other end. Looking up with chagrin, she shook her head, even as she finished the call.

They watched the blip enter the barrio district and begin turning down side streets. "Where the heck are they going?" asked David. The blip slowed, and then stopped.

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Don and his team arrived in the area forty minutes later. They had waited twenty minutes, watching the screen, and when the blip did not restart, Merrick decided to deploy. He had second thoughts about sending them out – he knew they were exhausted both physically and mentally – but he also knew he had a snowball's chance in hell of talking them out of it. He was watching Don, and all of them, closely. He was not convinced that Don should be on the case, but he conceded that if they found Charlie quickly, he was willing to allow it. If not, well, that would depend on how Don was handling it, he thought. One thing was for sure, if Don remained on the case, Merrick was going to oversee every move. There was no way the Director would allow it otherwise.

Before they entered the neighborhood, Don confirmed that the Envoy was still stopped. They found it easily on a side street. Colby and David had cruised past it to get a look and found it apparently empty. Now they were approaching the vehicle, guns drawn. A group of Latino boys sat on stoop nearby, looking on curiously, apparently not perturbed at all by the guns.

Don tentatively tried the door. It was locked. He pulled out keys and hit the automatic unlock. The agents surrounded the vehicle and opened all of the doors at once, guns drawn, checking the floors. Empty. Megan peered into the back, over the seat. Empty. Don slammed the door shut, frustration and fear welling up inside him, then hit the door with his fist.

One of the boys called out. "Hey man, who you lookin' for?"

Don looked over at him. "You see anybody get out of this vehicle?"

Several of them shook their heads, but one of them spoke. "Yeah, man, what's it worth?"

Don's eyes narrowed as he looked at the kids. "They should be in school," he thought as he walked over the group, trailed by his team. "Depends on what you got."

The boy eyed him for a minute, deciding whether to push for money. He caught the look in Don's eyes and the ugly bruise on his jaw and decided against it. Best not to make trouble, here. "I was upstairs," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the building behind him. "looking out the window, waitin' for my boys to show up. This, like, SUV pulls up. There were -," he stopped to count. "Six people got out. Five men and one woman. There were lookin' around, like, to see if anyone was watchin.'"

Don exchanged looks with his team and turned back to the boy. "One woman? Are you sure?"

"Yeah man. She was maybe five-seven, dark hair. One of the men had a big beard."

"Only one had a beard?" asked Colby.

"Yeah, just one."

"What did they do when they got out?"

"They just took off down the street," the boy waved his hand vaguely to the left.

"You didn't see a man with a bloody shirt?" asked Don. "Dark curly hair?"

"No man, no one like that."

"They didn't get in any other cars?"

"No, I didn't see no other cars on the street."

"What did the other men look like?"

"I dunno. Just like normal white dudes. One of them had a red jacket."

Don walked over to the side of the Envoy with his team, brooding. Where did the woman come from? He looked up at the windows of the apartment building. The boy was close enough that distance wouldn't factor into a mis-identification. Only one man had a beard – four of five of their captors had heavy beards. This was a different group of people. When did they make the switch? Had to be at the convenience store, he thought.

"Okay," said Don. "They had to have some vehicles nearby. We'll get LAPD down here and start asking around the neighborhood – see if there were any cars parked on the side streets, or if anyone else saw them. I want to check out that convenience store. They switched vehicles with these people – it had to be there."

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Don looked at the surveillance video from the store in frustration. The convenience store had three cameras - one inside, one trained on the small six-car lot in the front of the store, and one on the back lot. There was no tape from the camera in back – it had been broken the night before. The inside tape clearly showed one of their captors enter the store, and buy food and bottled water. The outside tape from the front was what didn't make sense.

The tape was trained on the front parking lot, and picked up the first part of the driveway next to the store that went to the back parking lot. They could clearly see the Envoy with Smith in the passenger seat, and Charlie silhouetted in the back, enter the driveway, then pull out of sight as it headed toward the back lot. Smith's man came in shortly afterward, bought the food and water, then left. When the Envoy pulled out, it turned right, and from the side view they could see that the man that had bought the food and water was in the front passenger seat. The man in the second seat was turned towards Charlie's direction; they could not see his face, but he looked like Smith from the back. Apparently they hadn't pulled the switch at the convenience store after all. "Then where?" Don wondered silently.

"Why would he change seats?" Megan wondered aloud as she watched the tape. At Don's look she said, "Smith. He likes to be in control. Why would he give up the passenger seat in front?"

Don thought grimly, "So he could sit next to Charlie and torment him," but he didn't say it aloud as his father was sitting in the room with them. Amita and Larry had left, disappointed, after they found that Charlie was not with the Envoy; they had called off that day, but decided reluctantly that they should try to make afternoon classes. Amita took Alan's cell phone number, and Alan promised to keep them updated. They left, exhausted and with heavy hearts.

The technician had frozen the frame of the Envoy leaving the driveway, just as it turned into the street. David was staring at it. "You know, he's not all the way turned around," he said, pointing at the man in the second seat. "You can see a little part of his face. Can you zoom in?"

The technician obliged. The only part of the man's face that was visible was the back of his jaw. David's eyes narrowed. "Do you see that?" They sat forward looking but no one spoke. "No beard!" exclaimed Colby suddenly. "There's enough of his jaw there that you would see part of his beard."

"Right," said David. "That means that it's not Smith. The only one it could be would be the guy with the mustache."

Don was focused intently on the picture. "What if they did make the switch?" he said aloud. "The only one of them that we know for sure was in the Envoy when it left was the guy that went into the convenience store. What if all the rest of them were different people? Back up a few frames. Stop." The technician had stopped at the back view of the Envoy. "Can you get a little better resolution?" The tech adjusted the contrast until they could see the outline of heads through the back window. "That video camera's not that great. All they need are the right number of people in the van, and a couple by the windows that looked like Smith or his men, and it would look like them pulling out."

Megan took a breath. "They had this set up ahead of time. They probably figured we'd be tracking them, and since they stopped there, we'd look at the video. They're trying to make us think they switched vehicles somewhere else."

"Right," said Don. "That's why they broke the camera in back. The question is; where did the rest of them go? Run the tape again." They watched from the point where the Envoy entered the lot. A few minutes later, a navy blue van exited the lot. "There," said Don, pointing, "that dark blue van. Wait till it turns, then zoom in on the driver." The tech did, and they took in their breath collectively. The image was grainy and the face in shadow, but all of them recognized the guard. "That's the guy without the beard," said Don. "What do you want to bet that Charlie is in the back of that van?"

Merrick stood watching from the doorway. "Can you see plates?" The technician ran the footage of the van again, slowly. The camera angle was set too high to pick up the plates until after the van made the turn, and then it was sideways to the camera. Don slammed the table with frustration. "Damn it!" He turned away from the screen and caught his father looking at him with his eyebrows raised, and Merrick's steely stare. He turned back and rubbed a hand over his forehead, and sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

"Let's take a break," suggested Merrick. "I ordered food." The team exchanged tired glances, but no one spoke as another technician brought in a box of sandwiches. Alan moved from his seat in the back of the room to one closer to Don. He couldn't begin to describe the impatience he felt at the process, but he also felt concern for his oldest son. "You need to get some sleep," he said quietly to Don. He noticed that Don was making no move toward the food. "You need to eat too. You'll be no good to Charlie if you don't take of yourself."

"I'm not hungry," said Don gruffly. "Even if I was, I can't eat with this tooth." White-hot pain stabbed his tooth whenever he took a breath – he couldn't even breathe without pain, much less eat. Alan's hovering wasn't improving his mood. He shot a scowl at his father, and said dismissively, "You ought to go home, Dad." Alan sat for a moment, watching him, then got up and left the room.

"You know," said Megan suddenly, over a bite of sandwich, "we've only been looking at the tail end of this. What about when they got here? Someone had to drop them off, right?"

Don straightened. "Pull up our building video, front of the building," he said to the tech. He thought for a moment. "Start with 6:45 a.m. yesterday."

They watched intently as traffic moved past the building entrance. "Hey, check it out," said David. "Dark blue van." They leaned forward trying to get a view of the occupants.

"There's a woman driving it," said Don. "Short dark hair. Yep, that's one of the guards in the passenger seat. That's our baby." There was a car in front of the van, which was waiting to pull in front of the building, but couldn't move up far enough to do it because the car was in the way. "Come on, come on, pull in," said Don. "Let's see those plates."

"They're tired of waiting. They're getting out right there," said Colby. The van was still stuck behind the car, which was not moving. They watched silently as Smith and the group piled out of the van, crossed the loading space and moved onto the sidewalk

"Look – there's Charlie," exclaimed Megan. They could see Charlie's figure, a short distance away, move closer and enter the building just after the men. "Wow, he walked right in behind them." Don said nothing. His heart wrenched at the sight of his brother, walking freely up the sidewalk, when now……..

"Come on, car, move," said Don impatiently. Traffic finally started to clear, and the car inched forward, the van on its tail. "Back off," he said to the van. "Slow the tape down," he said to the technician. The car and van moved slowly forward together, the van still on the car's tail, and passed off the screen, the plates still not visible. Nothing. "Shit!" Don swore. He stood abruptly and tossed a notepad across the room in a fury, and stormed out.

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They had been driving for a couple of hours. Charlie sat on the hard metal floor of the van, shifting to try to find a comfortable position. Smith was on the cell phone again. As soon as he hung up, Charlie spoke in a low voice. "I thought you were going to drop me off."

Smith frowned at him. "We got a long ways to go, boy. We aren't anywhere near ready to let go of you yet." Charlie stomach turned in a combination of fear and frustration, but he said nothing. Smith chewed on the inside of his cheek a minute, staring at Charlie. Finally he asked, "What kind of professor are you, anyway?" Charlie just scowled and looked away.

"If you know what's good for you, you better answer me, boy," snarled Smith.

Charlie sent a wary glance at him. "Math. I teach math." Silently, he added, "And quit calling me 'boy'." He looked away, hoping Smith would end the conversation.

"So what does a math professor do for the FBI?"

Grudgingly, Charlie said, "I consult on cases - statistics, probability theory, stuff like that."

"You work with your brother a lot? He use you on a lot of his cases?"

'Some."

Smith leaned forward with a nasty smile. "I'll bet he'd be using you on this one if he could, wouldn't he?" Charlie didn't answer, just looked away with his jaw clenched. "He's probably going to be hard pressed without you, now, won't he?"

Charlie turned, with his eyes blazing. "He doesn't need my help on any case. He'd solve them anyway. I just speed things up. And he sure doesn't need my help on this one."

Smith's eyes had grown dark, and his jaw had taken an angry set at Charlie's outburst. He asked, in a deceptively soft voice, "And why is that, Dr. Eppes?"

"Because he's a hell of a lot smarter than you are!" retorted Charlie angrily. He saw Smith's arm go up, and he tried to shift out of his reach, but he was against the metal side of the van. The backhand hit him with tremendous force, and the world went white. He was unconscious even before his head hit the metal behind him.

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Outside the conference room, Don placed both hands on a filing cabinet and leaned forward, head down, trying to control his rising frustration. He didn't notice that his father was standing beside him until he heard his voice. "I spoke to Dr. Wilton, son. He says he can put a temporary crown on that tooth in a half hour, and it will hold you for a week. He said he would squeeze you in any time today – you won't have to wait –,"

Don spun to face him, angrily. "There is no way in hell I'm going to the dentist, Dad, are you crazy? Charlie's in a van with a bunch of lunatics, and you think I'm going to the dentist?!"

He heard Merrick's voice behind him. "I need you in the conference room, Agent Eppes." Don turned and saw the hard look on Merrick's face, then looked back and saw the disturbed look on his father's. He put his head down and followed Merrick back into the room.

As they walked in, Colby was saying, "If Charlie was here, he'd use that traffic flow program he developed – what was that called? He could tell us how far that van had gotten in any direction -," he stopped abruptly when he saw Don and Merrick.

Merrick said to Don, "Sit down." Stepping back slightly, he addressed the group. "I've been assessing whether or not I should keep all of you on this case. You were after all, victims yourselves, which is traumatic, you are overtired, and you are looking for one of your own. All of this would serve to cloud your judgment." The team exchanged worried glances. "I left you on the case this morning, in part, because I thought we had a chance of finding Charlie quickly, and in part because I wanted to observe you."

He looked around the room. "I have come to the conclusion that for the most part you are operating quite well. We have come to a point; however, where you have done all that you can for the moment. The media vultures are still circling, looking for the latest on this case. We can use that to our advantage. We will circulate a still picture of the van to all news stations, and of course to all law enforcement offices. The other agents in this office are perfectly capable of answering the phones, and taking leads. I will also put someone to work on ID'ing the woman in the van. My point is, there will likely be a period of time here where others can fill your shoes. I would like you to go home for a few hours, clean up and get some sleep. If you can perform that simple task, I will let you back in here at 6:00 p.m." The team looked at each other, but did not move. Don was shaking his head to himself. Merrick spoke again sharply. "That was not a request." With resigned looks, the agents began to rise. "Eppes, you stay here." The rest of them filed out, glancing at Don, who had his head down, and his jaw set.

Merrick sat down next to him. "When I said 'operating quite well' for the most part, I wasn't necessarily referring to you." Don's head shot up, a look of protest on his face. "You appear to me to be ready to implode," continued Merrick. "If you want to stay on this case, you need to get a grip on yourself. That starts with getting the medical attention you need, and getting some food, and a few hours rest. Your father just made the first part easy for you. Go get your tooth done, and go home. Come back at six."

"Six p.m.," said Don, chagrined. "That's too long."

"I'll make you a deal," said Merrick. "If something hot comes up, I will call you and your team out immediately. That is more than fair."

Don's shoulders slumped in defeat. He nodded. "Good," said Merrick. "Close up. I'll let your father know." He left the room. Don sat for just a moment, his head in his hands. "Charlie, where are you?" he whispered.

The object of his thoughts was at that moment hurtling northward on the highway, nearly two hundred and fifty miles away, oblivious to the world.

---------------------------End Chapter 11------------------------------------------


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Earlier, when Don and his team had deployed to the Latino district, they had left by a back entrance, which was off limits to anyone but employees. As he left by the front entrance with his father, he was unprepared for the crowd of media milling around near the sidewalk. Word went through the group immediately that the two exiting the building were Agent Eppes and his father, and crowd moved forward like a pack of wolves, immediately surrounding them, yelling for comments and snapping photos. One of them was a reporter for one of the tabloids; most of the other reporters there would have called it sleazy, and he would have had to agree with them. He looked closely at Alan, and recognized him as the man on the curb that morning – he had taken a picture of him. When he realized that the shot he had gotten was of Charlie's father, he was thrilled. "Damn, that's a great shot," he thought. "I can use that."

He circled with the wolves like a hyena, trying for a shot, but knew he'd get nothing exclusive. Don and Alan pushed through the group with, "No comment." and made their way to Alan's car. Fortunately, Alan had gone out and moved it closer to the building while Don had been working. Most of the crowd consisted of respectable journalists, and they left Don and Alan alone once they reached the car. The hyena was another story, however. His own car was nearby, and he decided to try to follow them to see if he could get another exclusive photo.

Even including all of the long stakeouts that Don had participated in, he never remembered being so tired. Weighed down by bone-crushing fatigue, he fell asleep in the car on the way to the dentist's office. When they got there, it took a minute for Alan to wake him, and another for Don to get his bearings enough to command his limbs to move. The tabloid reporter had pulled into the lot behind them. "They're going to the dentist?" he thought in confusion, reading the sign. By the time Don entered the building; he had already set up his equipment, and snapped a long shot of Don at the doorway.

Alan had decided to run to a convenience store down the block while Don was in the office, to pick up soup, ice cream, and any other item he could find that was easy to chew. The reporter watched him pull out, but decided to stay put. He put away his tripod, took his camera, and headed for the doorway.

Inside the office, Dr. Wilton was true to his word. He had seen the story, like most of the rest of the country, and felt he had a personal stake in it, as the Eppes were his patients. When Alan called to say they were on the way, he cleared a room, and ushered Don in immediately. Within minutes they had taken a mold. The assistant informed Don that it would only take a few moments for them to develop a temporary crown, and left him alone in the chair with his thoughts.

Don sat in the chair, his mind spinning, jumping from one almost incoherent thought to another. He shook his head to clear it, and tried to focus on what was happening at the moment. "What is happening at the moment," he thought incredulously, is that I'm sitting in a freaking dentist chair, while Charlie -," He couldn't finish the thought. The ludicrous situation suddenly struck him, and he started to laugh silently, uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking, until tears started, and shaking turned into spasms of grief. He struggled for control. "My God, I'm cracking up," he thought, panicked. With a huge effort and many deep breaths he regained his composure. "Maybe Merrick was right," he thought, a little rattled by the experience. "I'm not thinking straight."

Dr. Wilton entered, and a few minutes later, the temporary crown was in place, giving almost immediate relief. Don thanked him almost as an afterthought, and headed out of the building.

Alan had pulled up to the entranceway to wait for Don. He saw the man loitering by the doorway, smoking a cigarette, and just assumed the man had come outside for a smoke. As Don exited, the man sprang into action, pulling up his camera and snapping a close-up of Don with Dr.Wilton's shingle in the background. "Hey!" Don exclaimed, scowling, and lunged for the man, who danced out of reach and took off across the parking lot.

Don started after him, but Alan called out the window. "Leave him, Donnie. It's not worth it." Reluctantly Don climbed into the car. "What's wrong with those people?" he growled.

The hyena watched them leave from his car. He was already on the phone to his editor. "Hey, I've got something hot," he said. "An exclusive on the Eppes hostage thing. If we hurry, we can get it out tonight." He licked his lips. There would be a big bonus in this for him, no question.

Moments later Don and Alan were home. Don had fallen asleep in the car again, and this time was so groggy that Alan had to help him into the house. Don made it as far as the sofa, and passed out as soon as his head hit the throw pillow.

"So much for the soup," Alan thought. "Oh well, he can eat later, when he wakes up."

He settled down in a chair next to Don. He had been making a tremendous effort to stay in control most of the day for Don's sake; and it had helped hold him together. Now he was alone with his thoughts; the emotions surfaced in a flood, and the tears came.

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Charlie awoke with groan, in sea of pain and confusion. It was dark, and he was dimly aware that he was in something that was moving. His head pounded, the left side of his chest ached, and his shoulder was throbbing painfully. As his eyes focused on the interior of the van, and his fuzzy thoughts gelled, he remembered where he was, and groaned again. Fear and frustration welled in him anew, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. He tried lifting his head, and a wave of nausea swept over him. The tape around his neck was uncomfortable before, but now it felt like it was gagging him. He struggled to a sitting position, choking and gasping, searching for breath.

Smith had moved to the passenger seat in front, to more comfortable seating arrangements, and the two guards left in the back looked at Charlie. "What's wrong with him?" asked one.

Charlie looked at them frantically. "My neck," he gasped. One guard looked for a minute, then reached forward and started unwrapping the tape. The pulling of the tape put even further pressure on Charlie's throat, but he endured it, desperate to be rid of the choking feeling. He was finally free, but the nausea was building. "I'm going to be sick," he gasped weakly.

"Whoa," said the guard. "Take the tape off his hands," he said to his partner. He looked around in a frenzy, and finally came up with a plastic bag and pushed it at Charlie, who, with his hands now free, had rolled onto his knees. Charlie immediately vomited violently into the bag, and simultaneous spears of pain shot through his head and his chest. He heaved again and again, producing nothing, because there was nothing in his system. Finally spent, he sagged against the side of the van, eyes closed, drawing in ragged breaths.

Smith turned and peered angrily into the gloom in the back of the van. "What's going on back there?"

"He got sick," called one of the guards.

"My cousin had a concussion once," said the other guard conversationally. "Puked his guts out for two days."

"Don't give him any ideas," said his partner, sourly.

Charlie's breathing gradually calmed. The nausea had lessened somewhat, but was still lurking. He opened his eyes cautiously. His head still pounded. "How long was I out?" he wondered. "Where are we?" He heard Smith's cell phone ring.

"Yeah," said Smith into the phone. "Shit. Okay. Listen, you know where we're stopping, right? How long would it take you to get there? We need another vehicle. Yeah. All right." He hung up and turned in his seat. "They got a description of the van out on every news station," he said. "No plate info, though." He looked at the driver. "Get us off this highway and onto some back roads," he said. "We're gonna switch vehicles when we get to the cabin."

Charlie's heart rose. A description of the van was something, he thought. He felt a warm feeling inside, knowing that Don and his team had managed to figure out what vehicle they had switched to. He peered ahead through the van, trying to get a look out the windshield. He could see a few other cars on the highway. "Somebody notice us," he prayed.

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Alan had awakened Don at 4:45. Don staggered off the sofa and upstairs for a shower and clean clothes, and then had come down and eaten soup and toast. He was still tired, but his thoughts were much more organized. After a cup of coffee, he almost felt human again. Alan dropped him off at the office at ten minutes to six, and headed back home. Amita and Larry had called Alan earlier for an update, and they were coming over to wait with him.

Merrick eyed Don sharply when he entered the office. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Much better," replied Don. It was as close as he would come to admitting to Merrick he was right. Megan and David had just arrived, and Colby came in a few minutes later. They gathered in the conference room, keen to get up to speed.

"We got the picture of the van out on the news stations, and circulated it to law enforcement on the whole west coast," began Merrick. "The phone has been ringing off the hook. The good news is we have a ton of leads. The bad news is we have no where near enough people to chase them down. Bob Tompkins called, offering help, and I took him up on it. We have several of his NSA people working leads. There's just too many of them, and they're spread out all the way from Mexico to Canada."

Don frowned. He couldn't help but think that if Charlie were there, he would find a way to help them narrow the search. He pulled his attention back to Merrick, who had continued.

"We also got an ID on the girl. She had a picture in the system and a charge for drug possession. Guess where she works."

A flash of realization hit Don. "The convenience store."

"Right. We have her place staked out, but she hasn't been back to it. She was due to start her shift at the store at six, and we're waiting for her –," As if on cue, his cell phone rang and he answered it. He smiled at the group. "Got her," he said. "They're bringing her in."

The girl's name was Lori Jeffers. She was probably pretty once, and would still get a second glance from a distance, but hard living had put lines in her face. "Bad teeth too," thought Megan, as she sat across the table from her. David was in the interrogation room with her, and Don, Colby and Merrick watched from the window. Megan had been talking to her for a few minutes already. "Thank God she hasn't lawyered up," thought Don.

"You people caused all this," Lori was ranting, in a Southern drawl. "You put them guys in that position."

"So, you're a member of the ADU," said Megan.

"No, I ain't, but I know some; they are good people," Lori retorted defensively.

"So who are some of the people you know?" asked Megan. "Some of the guys that took over this building?"

Lori scowled and looked away.

"Look, Lori," said Megan leaning forward with a hard look. "We have video of you dropping the group off in front of the building." Lori darted a swift glance at Megan, then looked away. "You are in this for conspiracy if nothing else."

David moved and sat down next to Lori, right in her line of sight. She had to shift her eyes back toward Megan, and looked down at the table. "Since they committed several federal offenses," said David in her ear, "that means several sentences. You will end up doing some hard time, for a long time."

"I didn't do nothin'," muttered Lori. "I gave them a ride, but I didn't know what they was going to do."

"How about afterward, Lori?" said Megan. "We know you were involved in the switch with the Envoy." Lori shifted uncomfortably.

"Listen, Lori, we have video footage of you in the Envoy afterward," said Megan. It was stretch, Megan thought, but not untrue. They had the footage; she just didn't bother to tell Lori that it was too dark for an ID. "You work at the convenience store where the switch was made. You are in this up to your eyeballs. If you don't cooperate, you are going away for a long time. You will be an old, old lady when you get out."

Lori pouted. "And if I help you out?"

"That depends on how much you help us," said David. "Do you know where they're headed?"

Lori sighed and rubbed her face. "Not exactly. Canada. That's all I know. Jesse had a place up in Canada, and they're headed up there."

"Jesse?" asked Megan.

"Jesse Tatum. He's the man you been callin' Smith."

"How'd you get involved in this, Lori?" asked Megan softly.

"My brother. He's in the ADU."

"Was he one of the men in Smith's – Jesse's - group?" asked David.

Lori frowned. "I ain't answerin' no more questions. I get a lawyer, right?"

Megan glanced toward the window. "That's it," said Merrick. "She said the 'L' word."

"We got something though," said Don. "We can narrow our search to the north." He tamped down the thrill of excitement at the lead, and his impatience to get started on it. He had to show Merrick he was behaving rationally. He spoke calmly to his team, "Let's get a tech to bring up a map. We need to figure the most likely route, and estimate how far they might have gotten." With a new sense of purpose, the group headed for the conference room.

End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Charlie had dropped off into a pain-ridden doze. He woke suddenly, blinking and confused as the van slowed, turned and stopped. He became aware of a figure bending over him, and felt the cold muzzle of a gun against his temple. "Don't move," said the guard. He sat still, leaning against the side of the van, listening to the doors at the front of the van slam, and then heard a 'thunk' as the door to the gas tank opened, then the familiar sound of gas pumping.

A few moments later, one door slammed, and then the other, and the van started. The guard leaned back and holstered his gun. Charlie stole a glance out of the front of the van. From the position of the sun in the sky, he guessed that it was around 6 or 7 o'clock. He had figured out some time ago that they were headed north, and decided that by now they must be in northern California, or Oregon, or maybe even Idaho, depending how far east they had gone. Smith tossed some bottles of water back to the guards, and one of them handed one to Charlie. He opened it and sipped cautiously at first, then suddenly realizing how desperately thirsty he was, downed the whole thing without stopping.

"Take it easy," grumped one of the guards. "We don't need you pukin' again." He turned to his partner and spoke quietly. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?" thought Charlie. He shifted sideways, pretending to be looking for a more comfortable position, and looked out the front of the van. They were in a rural area, on a two lane road, and the terrain was growing wilder as they drove. There were few cars on the road, few houses, and even fewer people, all adding up to less likely probabilities that someone would see and recognize the van, thought Charlie, his spirits dropping. He searched for a road sign that would tell him what state he was in, but before they came across one, the guard spoke. "Sit back." Charlie leaned back against the metal side, fighting his rising apprehension.

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Jenny O'Neill liked living in out in the country, generally speaking. They had a nice little house built up in the hills, near Quartz Mountain, Oregon. They were a few miles outside town - the only building for a couple of miles was the Henderson cabin at the bottom of the hill. The Hendersons were city dwellers, nice people, but they used the cabin as a vacation home and only came out a few times a year. Once in a while they let the cabin out to a renter, but renters weren't someone you could get to know. It was only recently, since Jenny's husband Bobby had gone to Iraq, that the isolated conditions had gotten to her, and even then it was more a matter of convenience than loneliness. After all, she had her two boys to keep her company. At six and eleven, they were a handful, and were more than enough to keep her busy, at least until it got quiet in the hills at night.

The boys had already eaten that evening. Jacob, the older, was glued to the 6:00 evening news, and even Joey was watching while playing with his trucks, glancing up at the screen occasionally. Jenny came into the family room and shooed them outside – the news was so violent these days she thought, and she always worried about them seeing scenes from Iraq. Besides, they could get some fresh air, and run off some energy before bed.

The boys were playing on the side of the hill. They liked the view – they could look out across the valley, and they could see the Henderson cabin below. They had built a fort out of sticks, and liked to pretend that they were planning a raid on the cabin. Jacob looked down at the road below with interest. There was a vehicle on it, which was unusual in itself. He thought at first someone was coming up to see them; then he saw them turn down the lane to the Henderson cabin. His eyes widened when he saw the van. "Hey, Joey, come here," he said excitedly. Joey got up and looked at where his brother was pointing. "Look, Joey, it's a _dark blue van_," said Jacob. "You remember, on the news they said to look out for a _dark blue van_." He said the words almost with reverence. "This is too cool. We have to tell mom."

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Charlie felt the van turn, and by the lurching figured that they were on a dirt road. The van pulled to a stop. He heard Smith say, "This is it, boys," and then the van door was sliding open. One of the guards nudged him. "Get out." He gingerly slid himself out, using his right arm to push, and landed on his feet. The world telescoped crazily, and he swayed. He was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his right arm tightly, and he leaned against him until his vision cleared. He was looking at a neat cabin, with a couple of sheds to one side. The hills rose around them, and the evening shadows were lengthening. They started to walk, Charlie on wobbly legs, the guard's hand still clamped on his arm. Charlie looked around him as best he could, considering he had to focus on the ground in front of him to keep upright. He could see no signs of any other houses or people, and fought back a wave of despair.

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Jacob and Joey burst into the house, babbling about the van, the news, and a kidnapping. "I knew I shouldn't have let them watch the news," thought Jenny, "they are so impressionable." To them she said, "Boys, there are a lot of dark blue vans around. You know the Hendersons wouldn't rent their cabin to a bunch of kidnappers, that's silly. Now go in and start getting your baths."

"But Mom," moaned Jacob. "We need to call the police."

"Jacob, think about what you're saying," said Jenny sharply. "These people are up here for a vacation. If you had your way, I would call the police on them and scare them out of their wits. Now wouldn't you feel silly if that happened?"

"Yeah," said Jacob, disappointed. He had so wanted the van to be something exciting.

"Go get your bath." He trudged off, crestfallen.

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Inside the cabin, the guard pushed Charlie against the far wall, and he slid down it, exhausted; his heart pounding with the effort of walking in. The cabin was neat, but rustic, and consisted of one large room with a small kitchen at one end, and bunks at the other, with a sitting area in between. The group clustered around a table near the kitchen, pulling sandwiches out of plastic bags. One of the guards walked over to Charlie. He spoke gruffly, but Charlie saw something softer, maybe not quite compassion, but at least not coldness, in his eyes. "Want a sandwich?" he asked. Charlie shook his head no. "I figured not," said the man. "Here, try these." He tossed a package of crackers in Charlie's lap and set down a bottle of water.

"Thanks," mumbled Charlie. The nausea had subsided quite a bit, but he was still not hungry. He nibbled on crackers halfheartedly as he listened to the men.

"Johnny figures he can get here by around 10:00," Smith was saying. "We'll find some back road around here and ditch the van, and hit the road again. I had figured on spending the night here, but it's too risky. We need to dump the van and get the heck out. We better get a couple of hours of rest while we can." They pulled out a map and pored over it while they ate.

Charlie finished eating his crackers, and took a moment to inventory his respective body parts. His face hurt on one side when he touched it, which he attributed to Smith's backhand, and he had a bump on the back of his head. He still had a headache, but it was subsiding. His ribs ached fiercely – his chest on that side felt strange when he moved, like there was something loose in it. His main source of agony at the moment was his shoulder. He had lost most of the ability to move his arm, and he wouldn't have wanted to because of the pain it generated. He gingerly felt his T-shirt. The blood on most of it was dried; only the top at the shoulder was still wet and sticky. He tentatively put his hand inside his T-shirt to touch the makeshift bandage. It was saturated, and his shoulder felt hot and extremely tender. Grimacing, he pulled out the wad of napkins from under Colby's T-shirt. They were now an almost black, foul-smelling shapeless clump, and he gagged at the sight and the smell.

"I need to get rid of this," he called to the men.

"What the hell is that?" scowled Smith.

"Bandage," gasped Charlie, nausea rising. One of the guards grabbed a plastic bag and brought it over, letting Charlie deposit the grotesque clump in it, and took it outside with a disgusted face. Charlie closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, and tried to calm the sudden bout of queasiness. He was covered with a cold sweat, and he suddenly shivered, chilled. Finished with the map, the men turned out the light, and all of them headed for the bunks but the driver, who stood guard. Someone else would drive tonight, and he would sleep then. He and Charlie were left alone in the dark with their thoughts.

Smith grunted as he settled into his bunk. The cabin had worked out well, he thought. One of their ADU members in the area had scouted it out ahead of time, and had found the nook where the owners hid their keys, without much problem. Tonight they would ditch the van and the hostage, switch vehicles, and tomorrow, thanks to fake passports, they would be in Canada. He glanced at Charlie's form, huddled against the wall in the darkness. He was going to take one final dig at Agents Eppes before he left, he thought. Smiling in satisfaction, he closed his eyes.

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Don stared at the map projected on the wall of the conference room. It was a view of the west coast, from L.A. up, marked with dots indicating reports of van sightings. A check had shown that there was no van registered to Lori Jeffers. When her lawyer had shown up, they had gone back to work on her with her lawyer present, trying to get her to cough up the owner of the van or the plate numbers. The lawyer effectively squelched any further conversation, and they reluctantly ended the interview. Now they were back in the conference room, faced with at least twenty sightings that could be valid for a van headed north. It was nine-thirty.

Colby walked in the room. "Just got another one," he said. "This spot was at around 7:00 up at a gas station on the California-Oregon border, just south of -," he checked his notes – "some town called Quartz Mountain. Not sure why it took so long to call it in, but we got plate numbers this time. I ran 'em – that van's registered to a Daniel Boyle."

Don spoke to the tech working on the computer. "See if we've got anything in the system on Danny Boyle." The tech typed for a minute, then shook his head negatively. "Okay, pull up his DMV picture." The image appeared on the screen.

"Holy shit," said Colby. "We got it." The man on the screen was without a beard, but they all recognized him instantly as one of their captors.

"We gotta get up there," said Don, urgently. "Colby, who did you talk to on this?"

"A local deputy," said Colby.

"Get him back on the line, in fact, get the sheriff," said Don, on his way out the door. "Let him know he needs to start an immediate search of the area. It's gotta be an eleven hour drive up there. I'm going to talk to Merrick about a plane."

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Charlie was dozing fitfully, fighting periodic chills. Around a quarter to ten, a vehicle pulled up in front of the cabin. Smith and his men piled out of their bunks and the guard looked out the window, and satisfied by what he saw, turned on the light. Charlie blinked as his eyes adjusted, and a soft knock came at the door, accompanied by a voice. "It's Johnny."

"Let him in," said Smith. He went forward to greet the man, clasping his hand, and slapping his shoulder. "Made good time."

"Yeah, it wasn't too bad," said Johnny. "What's the plan?"

"We're going to load up our stuff in your vehicle and one of the guys will follow you out of here in the van. We'll find some side road north of town and ditch it."

Johnny looked at looked at the young man sitting against the wall. He took in his bloody clothes, the purple bruise on his cheekbone, and his red rimmed eyes. "Man, he looks like a mess," he thought. He turned to Smith. "What about him?"

Smith looked at Charlie and smiled. "He stays here."

Charlie's heart gave a huge lurch. He was finally going to be free of his captors. Would Smith call Don like he'd promised? Charlie wondered. His next thought was, was he going to be left alive? He swallowed hard, his heart thumping painfully in his chest.

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Johnny, pulling a newspaper from under his arm. I picked this up at a truck stop on the way in. You're gonna love this."

Smith took the tabloid from him and glanced at the first page. He started grinning, then snickering. "Oh, this is beautiful," he said, shaking his head. He crossed over to Charlie, and handed him the paper.

Charlie took the paper with a look of mistrust and glanced at the page. The headline screamed, "HOSTAGE SAGA CONTINUES." The first picture underneath the headline caused his heart to contract – it was a shot of his father, sitting on a curb in front of the FBI building, his head in hands. There was another shot of Charlie, standing at the door of the Envoy.

"Look down the page," instructed Smith grinning. Charlie glanced at another article lower down, with the headline, "Hostage's Brother Makes Visit to Dentist." The newspaper had spun the story to make it sound like Don had no interest in the case, and was running personal errands instead of investigating. It was accompanied by a shot of Don entering the building, and a close-up of him leaving the building.

"This has got to be a set-up," thought Charlie wildly. Struggling mightily to control his expression, he handed the paper back to Smith, feigning indifference. "Don't believe what you read in tabloids," he said coldly.

Smith smirked at him. "Sounds like your brother isn't lookin' for you too hard." He added softly, "And that's really too bad for you." He turned to his men – "Okay, get your stuff outside."

Left alone for the moment, Charlie struggled with rising panic. "That he went to the dentist doesn't mean a thing," he reasoned. "He could have run in to get his tooth fixed and still be working the case. He was hurt – you could see the bruise on his jaw. Those tabloids will do anything for a story." He managed to calm himself down, and push the nagging doubt to the back of his mind. His attention was captured by angry words outside. Smith and one of his men were arguing.

"It's not your call, now is it?" he heard Smith saying angrily, then, "I don't plan on going back on my word in any way, shape or form. It's not my fault that they didn't ask me to be specific. Are you in or out? Because if you're out, you're gonna find your own transportation."

Smith and one of the men stomped back into the room. The man that had given Charlie the crackers earlier looked angry, and he wouldn't look at Charlie. "Get up," Smith snarled. Charlie rose shakily to his feet, using the wall as support on the way up. "Take him to the shed." The man grabbed Charlie's right arm and propelled him outside, toward one of the outbuildings, Smith behind them. Johnny stood by his vehicle, watching.

Light was spilling out of the open door of the shed, and as they approached, one of the other guards came out to meet them. "It's ready," he said, "we just need to adjust it." He fell into step next to Smith, behind Charlie and the guard holding him.

"Adjust what?" thought Charlie, fear knifing through him. The guard pulled him to the doorway, and he got his answer. In the middle of the shed, a heavy rope hung from the ceiling, tied into a noose.

-----------------------------End Chapter 13-------------------------------------------------


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Charlie, stopped, frozen, at the sight of the noose, and then backpedaled wildly, right into one of his captors. He felt strong arms encircle his chest, and he began to thrash his legs and kick violently. The arms tightened, exerting unbearable pressure on his ribs, and he suddenly felt a strange sensation; something gave in the left side of his chest, followed by a lightning bolt of pain. He saw stars for a moment, and felt dimly that he was being carried. His head began clearing as they reached the noose, and he gasped, suddenly short of breath.

"Relax," growled Smith, "we aren't going to hang you." One of the other guards lowered the noose over his head, and the one that was holding him set him on his feet. He staggered, breathing heavily, and the guard caught him and held his hands behind his back. He felt tape going around his wrists. "Stand up straight," said Smith. The guards worked at adjusting the rope; one tightened the noose around Charlie's neck, and the other took up the slack in the rope. When they finished, if Charlie stood straight, the rope sat around his neck tautly, but without pulling, but if he slumped or moved out of position, the rope tightened, and along with it, the noose. He stood there, chest heaving, desperately trying to bring in air, and to fight down the fear that seemed to be crushing his chest.

Smith smiled as he surveyed their handiwork. "Time for a phone call," he said, pulling out Charlie's cell phone and turning it on. He surveyed the numbers. "Speed dial 1," he said. "I'm guessing that's your brother." He punched the number into his own cell phone and then turned Charlie's off. Raising his phone, he snapped a close-up photograph of Charlie's face and shoulders, then stepped back and took a full body shot.

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Megan and David were still in the conference room, waiting for Don to come back from Merrick's office. Colby bustled in, fresh off the phone with the sheriff. "He's calling all his guys out to look for the van, plus some volunteers," he said. "They should all be out within the hour. He's calling the next town up north of there too."

One of the other agents stuck her head in the door. She held up a tabloid newspaper. "Did you guys see this?"

Megan made a face. "Don't usually read that one, myself."

"I don't either, but my sister's been collecting all the papers. She gave it to me. If I were Don, I would sue them." The team looked at each other, and Megan grabbed the paper out of the agent's hand.

"Oh boy," she said, as Colby and David read over her shoulder. "Better not let Don see this right now."

"Assholes," said Colby.

"Unbelievable," said David, shaking his head.

"What's unbelievable?" asked Don, walking into the conference room.

"Nothing. Stupid papers," said Megan, hastily stuffing the tabloid in her briefcase. "Whatcha got?"

"We've got a government jet, is what we've got," said Don. "Compliments of Bob Tompkins. It'll be waiting for us at LAX, takes off in an hour."

Merrick walked in behind Don. "I'll get an FBI chopper up there too. The closest airport is in Klamath Falls; it's about 50 miles from Quartz Mountain. We're bringing in back-up from the Portland Office to assist you." He looked at Don squarely. "Agents Eppes will be leading the team. The group will report to you."

Don looked back soberly and nodded. "Thank you, sir." His cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. "Eppes." His face paled and he listened for a moment; then hung up slowly. "That was Smith. He wants us to meet in the video conference room, now."

There was crime scene tape on the door; Don removed it and they filed in. Every one of the team felt a bit claustrophobic as they looked around the room. There was still blood on the floor near where Don had been kicked, and Charlie's blood stained the far wall, where he had been sitting. A technician worked feverishly to set up a trace on the phone. He completed the hookup just as it rang, and Don leaped toward it, hitting the speaker button as he picked it up.

"Agent Eppes," came Smith's voice over the speaker. "Your brother and I were just having a little conversation about your dentist appointment. He thinks you've been blowing him off." At this, Don's brow furrowed in confusion and he looked at his agents, mouthing, "What?" They exchanged uneasy glances. Merrick frowned. Don turned back to the phone.

"I'm assuming you're calling me to tell me you're dropping my brother off," said Don, still frowning, but speaking calmly.

"How perceptive," replied Smith. "Yes, I'm dropping him off. I gather that your cell phone accepts photographs."

"Yes."

"Plug it into the monitor. I'm sure your team will want to see these also." With a growing sense of dread, Don did as he was told.

"I'm in, and the monitor is up." Don's phone beeped, receiving two files. He clicked the first one, and it opened on the screen. The group took in their breath as Charlie's face, pale and dark-eyed, and neck, with the noose around it, filled the screen. Don's heart turned a somersault.

"What is this?" said Don angrily. "You promised you would drop him off unharmed."

"Did you open both files?"

Don clicked the second one, and the body shot appeared. Smith continued, "As you can see, he is standing on solid ground. He is unharmed, except for his earlier injuries, and he will stay unharmed, as long as he remains standing still. This is how we intend to leave him."

Charlie, listening to the conversation on the other end, began to calm down a little. Don would get someone out here, and get him out of this, he thought. It was unnerving and he was feeling pretty wobbly, but he could handle this for a little while. His calm was short-lived.

"All right," said Don, "give us the location."

Charlie saw Smith smile. "That wasn't part of the agreement. I said I would drop him off. I didn't say I would give you a location."

"What!"

Smith eyed Charlie, grinning cruelly. "You have some time to find him. The question is; can you do it before his legs give out, before he collapses from exhaustion? It all boils down to how good you are, Agent Eppes. Don't let your brother down, now." The phone went dead.

"Trace," said Don, looking at the technician anxiously. The tech shook his head. "I got northern California, southern Oregon," he said. "I couldn't narrow it down anymore." Don fought down a rising sense of panic. Merrick rubbed his forehead, wondering with this new development if he should have given Don the lead on the case.

Don swallowed; then turned, suddenly cold and businesslike. "All right people, get your gear. The plane takes off in less than an hour." His team turned, exchanging a resolute glance, and hurried out of the conference room.

"Don," said Merrick, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said Don coolly. "There is no time to be anything else right now. May I go, sir?"

Merrick paused; then nodded. "I'll be here at the command center, if you need anything. Good luck, Don." He watched his senior agent leave the room. Any doubts that he had about giving Don the lead suddenly vanished. He knew, somehow, that he had made the right decision.

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**_0 Hours_**

Charlie could feel his heart pounding again. He watched in disbelief as Smith turned to go. The guard next to him pulled the cord, shutting out the light, and the shed was plunged into darkness. The door shut, and he could hear someone fumbling with a lock. "Wait!" he cried in a strangled voice. He heard footsteps receding, then the sound of an engine starting, then another, and the finality of the sound of the vehicles pulling away. "Wait," he whispered, his eyes closed in agony. Terror rose up to engulf him, and he felt light-headed. His ears began to roar, and he swayed slightly.

"Get a grip, Eppes," he told himself desperately. "Whatever you do, you can't pass out. Breathe." He took in breaths as fully as he could, but he couldn't seem to breathe as deeply as he wanted to. The left side of his chest stabbed him whenever he tried, and he could feel, rather than hear, a strange gurgling in his lower chest. Focusing on his breathing had the desired effect, however, and the roaring gradually left his ears.

He felt completely disoriented in the dark, and found that it was affecting his balance, and caught himself with tiny sidesteps when he swayed. Little by little his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There were two tiny grimy windows high up in the shed, and they let in a bit of the light from outside. Gradually, his heart quit its insane pounding, but panic still roiled in his gut, threatening to raise its ugly head at any moment.

He needed to focus on something to keep the fear at bay, to keep control. The longer he kept control, the longer he would last. He had to last, _had to_, until Don found him. His mind searched options feverously, and he played with the idea of differentiating equations. He stopped himself, thinking that even he thought that was crazy – he was standing in a shed with a noose around his neck, and he wanted to solve differential equations. A voice in the back of his head disagreed; "Whatever works, Charlie." He struggled with himself for a moment; then gave in. This may seem insane, he thought, but letting his thoughts roam freely seemed like a much worse alternative. Grimly, he went to work on an equation for radiative heat transfer from a solid half-sphere.

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Megan sat next to Don on the flight, watching him scan through the briefs with information on the van sightings in the area. He seemed perfectly composed – completely opposite to the way he had behaved earlier in the day. She wasn't sure which disturbed her more – the control came at great personal cost to him, she was sure. He spoke to her briefly about one of the sightings, and his tone was not only composed, it was completely dispassionate. The Don she knew was always in control, but usually passionate about his work – even a little intense. She made up her mind on the spot– this lack of emotion definitely disturbed her more – it was downright creepy.

Don concentrated on the work in front of him. The sight of Charlie with the noose around his neck had shocked him into cold purpose. It was his mission to save his brother – nothing else mattered or could get in the way, he told himself, including his own emotions. The one concession he made to anything other than his mission was to call his father before leaving for the airport. That was over now, and he was focused like a laser. Well, nearly so. His thoughts strayed back to the conversation.

"Dad." he had said when his father answered the phone. His voice had sounded a little shakier than he wanted it to.

"Donnie," answered his father, then anxiously, "what's going on? Did something happen?"

"They dropped Charlie off."

"Oh, my God, that's great! It's about time! Is he okay? Where is he?"

"We think he's somewhere up in southern Oregon, near a place called Quartz Mountain. We-"

"Wait – 'you think'? You don't know for sure?"

Don had paused, searching for words. "He's in a shed of some kind, Dad. He's – he's tied up. He can't get out. We know he's in the general area, but we have to find him."

There was dead silence on the other end. Finally, his father spoke. "How do you know this?"

"The van was sighted in the area. We think Charlie is around there, or a little north of there." Don paused, not knowing how much to say. "Smith called us and sent pictures of Charlie in the shed."

"How do you know he's okay?"

"We don't," thought Don, but he said instead, "He looked okay in the photographs. He was standing on his own." _Please, God, let him stay that way. _"We're flying up there. I'm headed to the airport right now. We're gonna find him, Dad."

Silence. Then, "Donnie?"

"Yeah."

"Be careful."

"I will, Dad."

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**_Two hours_**

Charlie was still focused on his heat transfer equations, but his physical condition was intruding on his thoughts. He was starting shiver; the nights got cool in the hills, and temperature was dropping in the shed. "I wonder if I could develop a heat transfer equation for the human form," he wondered absently. "I am radiating a certain amount of energy at 98.6 degrees into a cubic space at around, 50 degrees," he guessed. "I would need to develop equations that would approximate human geometry. There would be convection to consider, too -," He thought for a moment, then decided he did not like the direction those equations would take him. It sounded like a recipe for hypothermia. As he stopped focusing, other symptoms intruded on his consciousness. The aching in his shoulder had intensified, and he noticed that his breathing was becoming slightly more labored. His knees were shaking – was that fatigue or cold? Wrenching his thoughts back to math, he began a linear regression analysis.

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The flight had taken about an hour. Upon reaching the airport at Klamath Falls, they found that the Portland agents were there ahead of them, and had the vehicles that they would be using ready to go. They loaded their gear, and set off for Quartz Mountain, a 50 mile drive that they made in about as many minutes, each one of them agonizingly slow. They were now in a building that housed the sheriff's office and the town hall, crammed into the meeting room, which was the biggest room in town.

The local law enforcement people, most of them volunteers, and the Portland agents looked curiously at Don. They all knew that they were looking for the agent's brother. Don had conferred with Sheriff Hudson, and was now organizing the group into teams with cold efficiency. "Man," thought one agent, watching him coolly direct people, "he is an ice man." There were a few teams out on the road as they spoke – Don aimed to get as many more of them out there as possible in the shortest time possible. They pulled up a map, briefed the group on the reported sightings in the area, and then divided the entire county, which included Quartz Mountain and several other small towns, into sections.

"Your first priority is to find the van," said Don to the group. "However, you also need to be looking for sheds. You need to document where you find them, and search them immediately if at all possible. I understand it's the middle of the night, and it may be difficult to get owner permission or even find out who owns them, but you need to check out as many as possible, and document where they are, and if they were checked. Please let the owners know what you are doing if you are on their property – I don't need people getting shot at."

"What kind of shed are we looking for?" asked an agent. Don flicked on the projector attached to his laptop, and projected the full body shot of Charlie on the wall. It didn't show the entire shed, but it captured a portion of the interior, and the doorway. The group murmured at the sight of Charlie, standing with a noose around his neck.

"The shed appears to be wooden, fairly rustic," continued Don. "We can rule out metal or prefab buildings." He switched the photo to the head shot of Charlie. The murmuring increased, and Don held up his hand for silence. "This is Dr. Charles Eppes. He is known to be injured, probably operating on very little food and water at this point, and is most likely sleep-deprived. The noose is adjusted so that if he remains standing, he will be fine. If he were to pass out, however -," he stopped, then continued without emotion. "My point is; we do not have a lot of time. Are there any more questions? Everyone has the phone number of the command center? Good. Good luck people."

The group filed out into the night. "Man, he is one cold dude," said one volunteer to another. "I wouldn't want to get on his bad side." His partner nodded agreement, as they headed towards their vehicle.

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**_5 hours_**

Charlie was shivering violently. Teeth chattering, he spoke in broken sentences to himself, still working his equations. His thoughts were fragmenting, and he kept losing his place and having to restart the calculations. Other thoughts kept intruding, and the pain in his shoulder was becoming unbearable. The shivering was causing the coarse rope to vibrate against his neck, and the skin was starting to turn raw. "It's so cold," he kept thinking, and that thought was a running litany in the back of his mind.

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Don assigned himself and his team to the command center, handling information that came in, and standing ready to deploy if something significant was found. They all would much rather have been in the field, doing something, anything to keep their minds occupied, anything to feel like they were contributing towards finding Charlie. Don found his mind wandering, and frowned as a thought occurred to him. "How did Smith know about my trip to the dentist?" he wondered. "Was he having me followed?" The thought produced a bolt of panic, and he unconsciously jumped to his feet. "Did Smith have someone watching Dad?" he thought. "Should I have someone on the house?"

Megan was watching him curiously. "What's up?" she said.

Don frowned. "I was just wondering how Smith knew that I went to the dentist. Maybe I should call Merrick, and have someone watch my dad." His team exchanged glances. "What?" asked Don suspiciously.

"This is probably how he knew," said Megan, pulling the tabloid from her briefcase. She handed it reluctantly to Don.

Don scanned the top of the paper, frowning. His face turned red as he got to the article about his trip to the dentist. "What the ...!" he exploded.

Despite his obvious distress, Megan had to smile. Finally, emotion. This was the boss she knew and loved. Her smile vanished, as Don looked up with a stricken expression.

"Do you think he showed this to Charlie?"

"Oh, I'd bet on it," snorted Colby. Megan shook her head at him, but he didn't catch her warning gesture. "That jerk – you know he did." He caught Megan and David looking at him, and stopped abruptly.

Don sat down heavily. For Charlie to have to go into this situation, thinking that no one was looking for him -, he said to himself, then stopped, unable to continue the thought. For the first time that night, he let fear find a foothold.

_We're looking for you, buddy. We are. You just have to hold on._

_--------------------------------------------End Chapter 14---------------------------------------_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**_8 hours_**

Very dimly, Charlie was aware that the sun was rising. The cold had all but shut down his thought processes, and still shivering spastically, he was focusing now only on maintaining his balance. Waves of dizziness would pass, causing him to stagger and pull against the noose, which rubbed at his already sore neck. His shoulder was nearly unbearable, and he had to make a concerted effort to breathe deeply enough to get enough air. Vaguely he became aware of the sound of a vehicle. Groggy, it took a moment for the thought to register, but it occurred to him that he should yell for help. All that came out was a pitiful croak, but it didn't matter - a bellow would not have been heard – and the sound of the vehicle receded in the distance, leaving him still alone.

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Jenny O'Neill drove down the road from their house, her boys in the back seat. She took them to the school bus stop down on the main road every day – the buses would not come up the dirt road to the house. As the vehicle descended, the Henderson's place came into view below. She glanced at it idly, and seeing no vehicle parked in front of it, said teasingly to Jacob, "It looks like your mystery people only stopped for the night. Or maybe they're out to breakfast."

The road wound lower, and they passed the cabin. Jacob craned his neck, looking for the blue van, and seeing none, slumped back in his seat. "I still think they were kidnappers," he muttered to himself stubbornly. "That would have been so cool."

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The search teams reported in for a meeting at 8:00 a.m. The evening teams were being retired, and fresh teams were going out. Donuts and gallons of coffee were being provided by a local café. Each team went over the areas that they had covered, how many sheds had been discovered, and how many searched. There were a large number that had been documented that had not been searched due to the fact that it had been night, which needed to be looked at that day. There were also a lot of areas in the county still not covered. Nearly every dwelling in the county had at least one outbuilding, and locating them all was slow going. Don briefed the new searchers and organized handoffs between the teams, and they headed for their assignments.

He was on his third cup of coffee when the command center phone rang. David was closest, and he picked it up, then motioned to them. "Yeah," he said, "off of 140, Route L, about 3 miles, turn onto a dirt road. Was it near any buildings? Okay. We'll be right there." He hung up and stood. "They found the van."

Don's heart jumped, but he spoke calmly. "Anyone with it?"

David shook his head. "No, nothing around it either. The road's a dirt access road to a creek."

"Okay," said Don. "You and Colby go check it out. Megan and I will hold down the fort." He sat down trying to calm the jumpy feeling he had inside. "Too much caffeine," he thought, but he knew that the sound of the phone had set him off. Frowning, he looked at map of the county, marked with sites both checked and unchecked.

Megan was watching him again. It was beginning to irritate him a bit – primarily because he knew how good she was at reading him – or anyone else for that matter.

"What's the matter?" she asked, looking at him over her coffee cup, which she clutched in both hands.

"This is going too slowly," he sighed. "At this rate, it's going to take us all week." He pushed back the thought that it would have been lucky for Charlie to make it through the night. _He's fine. He has to be. Fine._

"There's a hotel down the road, at the junction with the highway," Megan said. "Maybe we ought to book a couple rooms. I think some of the Portland guys already did."

Don didn't want to admit that the search was going to take long enough that they would need hotel rooms, but he knew she was right. "Okay, go ahead," he said, resigned. "If you can check in this early, why don't you go get some rest? We're going to have to work in shifts." He felt guilty as he said it. _Charlie isn't getting any rest._

**_12 hours_**

The shed had begun to warm up, and the infernal shivering was lessening. Charlie's thoughts, while not as coherent as they were twelve hours ago, were decidedly clearer than they had been in the middle of the night. That was not entirely good; he was more aware of how he felt physically, which was terrible. His shoulder was still throbbing, and random spears of even more intense pain shot through it periodically. His chest hurt with each breath, and his feet and legs had joined the other parts of his body in vying for how much agony they could generate. His knees were shaking, and he knew now for sure it was exhaustion setting in, and not the cold. He kept shifting his weight from one leg to the other, trying to give each aching foot a little relief. Worst of all was the numbing fatigue. It scrambled his thoughts and intensified the pain.

His thoughts whirled and telescoped, settling on one unrelated topic after another. He thought of his father, wondering what he was doing. He remembered looking at him across the barriers outside the FBI offices, and wondered if that was the last time he would see him. Grief welled up in him as he remembered the picture of Alan in the paper, sitting dejectedly on the curb. He thought of his last day at home – Sunday, with his dad and Don, eating dinner. A sob wrenched itself from his gut. _Get a grip - can't think about that. _

He pulled his thoughts back with an effort. What had he been thinking about? Alan on the curb – his mind shifted to the paper, and the article about Don at the dentist. He tried to push the doubts down, but they nipped at the edges of his brain like terriers. _Don't be ridiculous. You know he'll come. You know he'll come._

He took a shuddering sigh, trying to tamp down the emotion that threatened, but he couldn't hold the grief back any longer. Overcome by fear, fatigue and pain, he sobbed, shoulders shaking, his eyes too dry for tears.

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David and Colby were back. The van had been abandoned a few miles north of town. An evidence team was going over it, but it looked like there was precious little to collect. Two extra search teams had been sent to the area, to drive the back roads nearby and look for outbuildings.

Don pondered the implications of finding the van. Had they dropped Charlie off before or after they ditched it? The pictures were taken at night, which meant around 7:30 or later, and they had to have been taken before the phone call. That meant they could have gotten at least this far, to the Quartz Mountain area, but it also meant that if they held on to Charlie after they ditched the van, they could have gotten much further north. Or, if they had stopped for a while; then took the pictures, they could have dropped him off further south. With a stab of fear, Don realized that they could be looking in the wrong area. To top it off, they didn't have a prayer of even covering this area in time. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He had to get out of this room, get some air. He stood up abruptly and made his way blindly to the exit. Colby and David watched him go. "I got it," said David softly.

He stepped outside. Don was leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, eyes closed.

"You okay?" asked David quietly.

Don replied, eyes still closed. "Yeah. Just had to get some air."

"Where's Megan?"

Don sighed and opened his eyes. "She went and got us hotel rooms. I told her to get a few hours of sleep. We're going to have to split into shifts."

"Why don't you go too? There's nothing happening right now. Colby and I will hold down the fort." Don looked at his feet, but didn't reply. "Come on," David said persuasively. "You know you have to keep sharp. You'll be right down the road. You know we'll call you if something comes up."

Don sighed again. He knew he couldn't argue with the logic of that. "Can you run me down there? Megan has our vehicle."

The hotel was literally minutes down the road. David had dropped Don off, and he had checked in and set his alarm. Now he sat on the edge of the bed. He was exhausted - he knew he would be out the minute he was down – and he couldn't handle the idea. The guilt of being able to lie down and rest when Charlie couldn't tore at his soul. He felt as though, by sleeping, he was abandoning him somehow. He thought of his father, yesterday, pushing him to rest. He groaned and laid back, knowing it was the right thing to do. Why did he feel like a traitor? A few minutes later he was out, before the tears even dried on his cheeks.

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**_17 Hours_**

Charlie gasped and choked, his legs flailing underneath him. He managed to get them under control and stand, still gasping, the noose tight around his neck. He rolled his head around on his shoulders, trying to get the noose to loosen. It eased slightly and he did it again, staggering as his head tilted back, and then stood shaking, chest heaving. That wasn't the first time, he thought, despairingly, but he couldn't think clearly enough to remember how many times he had gone out. He stood, swaying, legs trembling. _Had to stay awake. He couldn't keep doing this._

He coughed, and stiffened at the spasm of pain in his chest and shoulder. It was now stifling in the shed, but he felt chilled. He had long ago given up the idea of trying to work equations; his thoughts were no longer coherent enough. They swirled in and out of his brain, punctuated by random visions of his family, his friends, his office at CalSci, the van, blackboards, lecture halls, his dining room table, the conference room, Smith. He stood dumbly and let them pass, no longer having the capacity to hold on to any one of them for any length of time. Only one thought was consistently there, skimming below the surface, firmly implanted in his subconscious. _I know he'll come. Have to stay standing. I know he'll come._

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Don awoke with a start, nearly tumbling out of bed in his effort to get to his feet, confused. Something was ringing. He went for the phone; then realized with disappointment that it was the alarm. He shut it off, and rubbed his face. No phone call meant they had found nothing. Still nothing.

A short time later, he was back at the command center with Megan pulling together a summary of the search progress. David and Colby had gone to the hotel to get some sleep. Don reviewed what had been checked so far. It had actually gone much better during the day, and many of the sites had now been crossed off. That was small consolation, though – the less that remained, the greater the chance that they were looking in the wrong area. He pushed the doubts aside – he had work to do. He was going to call Merrick and give him a briefing, and in a half hour, he was scheduled to give a briefing to the local press.

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Jenny O'Neill had picked her boys up from the bus stop, and was driving up the hill. She worked as phone salesperson from her home for a window company out of Klamath Falls, and had spent part of the day on the phone, and the rest of it cleaning. She hadn't had the television on at all that day, instead listening to CD's, and was blissfully unaware of the excitement in town.

Jacob spoke from the back seat. "They were talking about the kidnapped guy in school today. A lot of the guys' dads are out looking for him."

Jenny frowned. "What kidnapped guy?"

"You know, the one in the blue van," said Jacob impatiently.

"Oh," said Jenny. She hadn't realized that the news story from the other night referred to something that actually was happening in this area. A bit of doubt entered her mind. What if the van her boys had seen was the one that they were looking for? It didn't matter now, she thought, glancing at the Henderson place; they were gone. Thank goodness, too, if it had been them. She drove on up the hill, her thoughts turning to what she planned for dinner.

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The briefing with Merrick was over, as was the press conference. Merrick had been supportive and encouraging, trying to boost Don's spirits – how much of it was false, Don couldn't tell. The press conference had gone well. The local newscasters recorded Don's progress statement, and he listened while they recorded their own summaries on the site. Every station was urging its viewers to check their outbuildings, and for anyone that might have seen the van to report in. He had given the stations the phone number of the command center, and they planned to include it in their broadcasts. There were several people in the street, watching the proceedings. Local businesses had offered donations of anything they could think of, and more volunteers were showing up each hour, many from neighboring towns. The story had captured the hearts of the small community – it seemed that the whole county had turned out.

In spite of his fears, the excitement of the people was contagious. Don's spirits lifted a bit, and he even managed to sound confident when he called his father to give him an update. His father, too, sounded optimistic as he hung up. The knowledge that his father wasn't entirely aware of the predicament Charlie was in lurked in the back of Don's mind, and he felt guilty for not telling him about the noose. He doesn't need to worry about that, Don told himself. He's got enough on his mind. I'll fill him in when we find Charlie.

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**_22 hours_**

Charlie could see his father, standing behind the barriers in the street. He was trying desperately to walk toward him, but someone had their hands around his throat, choking him, holding him back. He was crying with frustration, and with a last effort, pushed hard towards his father, then swung crazily, spinning, choking. Somehow, instinctively he found his feet, and suddenly he was back in the shed, which was now dark. He rolled his head to loosen the noose, staggering and shaking, breaths coming in painful rasps. The temperature was dropping, and he was shivering again, staggering like a drunk, shaking like he had palsy. Had he been capable of reasonable thought, he would have known that he had very little chance of making it through the night. The only thought that remained, growing ever dimmer, was more of a mantra than a thought. _He's coming. I know he'll come._

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Jenny O'Neill had let the time get away from her, and the boys were still up. They had gotten their baths early and were in their pajamas, but they were still watching television, and they should have been in bed. She hurriedly turned down their beds and set about getting their clothes ready for the morning.

The news had come on with the story of the search for the kidnap victim and Jacob was glued to the screen. He heard the request for anyone who might have seen the van to contact the command center, and when the number came on the screen, he ran and jotted it down. Tearing down the hallway to his bedroom, waving the paper, he yelled, "Mom, Mom! We gotta call this number! They said if we saw the van, we had to call the number!"

Jenny straightened in frustration. "Jacob, that van is long gone. It's not there any more, do you understand? Now drop this nonsense and come to bed."

"But they found the van. They're looking for the guy! But they still want us to call if we _saw_ the van."

Jenny, not understanding that they were now searching for sheds, not vans, said sharply, "That's enough! Get to bed now." Joey had come up behind Jacob and was looking at them wide-eyed. "You too, Joseph." They got into bed, Jacob grudgingly, and she turned out the lights.

Jacob stewed over the news story. They had said the man was in a shed, and were asking people to check their sheds. No one was checking the Henderson sheds, he thought. What if the man was in there?

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At 8:00 pm, they had gone through another shift change of searchers, getting updates from the ones that were coming in, and giving assignments to the ones going out. It was now four hours later, and any optimism that Don had felt earlier had vanished, and had been replaced by despair. He could see the same sentiment on the faces of his team – everyone knew that the chances of finding Charlie alive were dimming. The command center phone rang suddenly, and they all jerked upright. Don grabbed the phone, shoulders slumping when he heard Merrick's voice on the line. His agents heard him address Merrick and sagged back into their seats. Don hit the speaker button on the phone.

Merrick got right to the point. "They found Tatum," he said.

"What? Where?"

"Behind a truck stop up in Washington State, behind a bunch of semis. He's dead – shot. They have a witness that heard an argument going on back there – didn't see the people, but we think one of his own men shot him. We're checking it out, trying to see if we can track down the others, or find out what vehicle they were in. How's it going there?"

"It's going," said Don quietly. "Nothing new."

Merrick offered some hollow words of encouragement, and hung up. The news of Tatum's death somehow soured Don's mood even further. He felt cheated somehow. He wondered which man had shot Tatum, and wished it could have been him.

Several hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, he was wishing he could shoot himself.

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Jacob crept of out of bed at 6:00 a.m. and shook his brother. "Joey, wake up," he whispered. "Get your shoes on but be real quiet. We're going on a mission."

Joey was groggy, but at the word 'mission' his eyes popped open. "A mission?" he said, a little too loudly.

Jacob shushed him. "Yeah, but we can't wake Mom. This is top secret." Joey's eyes widened and he slipped out of bed. They put their shoes on, letting themselves softly out of the house. It was cool outside; the sun was just barely up over the horizon, and they shivered in their pajamas as they ran down the hill. It was about a quarter of a mile, and by the time they reached the cabin, they were warmer.

Jacob approached the sheds with caution, Joey obediently tagging behind him. Now that he was here, he was a little afraid. His curiosity drove him on, however, and he circled the first shed. There were no windows, and the door was padlocked. He sighed, thinking maybe they had done this for nothing. He glanced at the padlock on the door of the second shed, then walked around the side. There was a slit of a window, more like a transom, but it was too high for him to see into the shed. "Joey, come here," he said. "Stand on my shoulders."

He stooped down, and Joey clambered up, stepping hard on his collarbones. Joey was a solid kid, and Jacob winced as he straightened, Joey's hands on the wall of the shed to give him balance. Joey peered into the dirty window. "I can't see."

"Wipe the glass off," Jacob grunted. Joey wiped, and peered again. He gasped, "There's someone in there!"

Jacob started, and nearly dropped him. "What's he doing?"

"He's just standing there, in the middle of the floor. He's got a string on his neck."

"A string on his neck?"

"Not a string, you know, a –"

"A rope?"

"Yeah!"

Jacob nearly dropped his brother. His heart was pounding as he lowered him down.

"Joey," he said, kneeling and looking into his brother's face. "Did it look like he was alive?" Joey's face clouded, then he shook his head no. Jacob's stomach lurched. "Come on," he said, "we have to call the police!" He grabbed Joey's hand and tore off, nearly dragging his brother up the hill.

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The phone rang at around 6:20 a.m. Colby grabbed it. "Command center." His eyes grew large, and his face turned pale. The others leaned toward him, straining to hear the conversation.

"Okay, kid, okay, slow down!" Colby repeated the boy's words, "There's a man in a shed near you with a rope around his neck." Don jumped to his feet. He looked at Don, still speaking. "I need you to speak slowly and give me your address." "Oh, hello, ma'am. Yes, my name is agent Colby Granger, I'm with the FBI. No ma'am, it's absolutely not a problem. Ma'am, I think your son has something legitimate that we need to check out. Can we get your address and phone number?" He jotted down the information. "No ma'am, don't apologize. Trust me, this is not a problem. We will be right there."

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The ride to the O'Neill place only took fifteen minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Don's team's two vehicles, Don and Megan in one, and Colby and David in the other, roared up the dirt road, lights flashing, followed by Sheriff Hudson and another vehicle driven by one of his deputies. Jacob, standing on the porch with Joey and his mother, thought it was the coolest thing he had every seen, as the vehicles stopped, lights still flashing, and agents poured out of them. Don bounded onto the porch, holding out his hand to Jenny. "I'm Agent Eppes, ma'am."

"Jenny O'Neill," she said shakily, taking his hand. She had her other hand protectively on Jacob's shoulder. "The boys found something this morning – they called you before they talked to me –

"Mrs. O'Neill," Don stopped her, gently, trying not to show his impatience. "Where is the shed?"

"It's not here – it's down at the Henderson place."

"Can you show us? How far?"

"You passed it on the way up. It's down at the bottom of the hill."

"Okay, we'll drive back down. You can ride with us."

"Cool," thought Jacob again as he climbed into the back seat of Don and Megan's vehicle with his mom and his brother.

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**_32 hours_**

As the vehicles reached the bottom of the hill they piled out. The sun was hitting the cabin and the sheds directly now, and it was a peaceful bucolic setting, a fact that was lost on Don completely. His heart was pounding, and the sense of urgency was unbearable.

He looked at the buildings and turned to Jacob. "Can you show me which one?" Jacob started forward quickly, but Megan put her hand on his shoulder.

"You'd better just point it out from here," she said kindly, as she looked at Don, who looked stricken as realized why she had said that. She doesn't want him to see when we open the door, he thought, he thought, his heart twisting in his chest.

"It's that one on the right," said Jacob pointing. Colby grabbed a pair of bolt cutters from their vehicle, and the group raced to the shed.

"Please, God, please," Don prayed mindlessly, as Colby cut the lock. The door swung open, and the morning sun illuminated an apparition that was barely recognizable as his brother. Three days worth of stubble, sunken eyes, and cracked lips topped a bloody oozing mess of a neck. Charlie's eyes were closed, and for a sickening moment Don thought that he had been hung and was swaying in the breeze; then he realized that Charlie was swaying on his feet. All of it shot though his mind in a split second; he leaped forward and gathered Charlie in his arms, and half growled, half sobbed, "Get that thing off him!"

David and Colby gently pried the noose open and slipped it from his neck, and Don sank to the floor of the shed with Charlie in his arms. Megan put her hand forward to check for a pulse, and stopped when Charlie's eyes flickered open. His lips were moving, and with tears in his eyes, Don bent forward to catch the words that came in the faintest of whispers.

"I knew you'd come."

---------------------------End Chapter 15---------------------------------------------------


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Holding Charlie close to his chest, still trying to fathom the turn of events that allowed them to not only find him, but find him alive; Don looked up into the eyes of Sheriff Hudson. Gone was the controlled ultra professional FBI agent. That man had been replaced by a grieving and frightened brother. "Where is the nearest hospital?"

_The iceman is gone, _thought Hudson to himself. Compassion was on his own face as he answered. "Hillview – it's about 25 miles from here. There's an ambulance station between here and there, but it's closer to the hospital than it is to here – it will be quicker if we take him ourselves."

Don nodded and looked down at his younger brother. Charlie's eyes slid shut and a thought entered the agent's mind unbidden.  
_Rest now little bro. You can rest now._

This thought was marred by the sound of Charlie's weak and uneven breathing. The rasping sound emanating from his brother's worn and battered body struck fear in the older man's heart. With an unsteady voice Don looked up at Colby with an expression that the younger agent would never forget. "Colby, help me get him to the SUV."

Don was cradling Charlie's torso close to his chest and with his right hand he reached down and scooped up his brother's legs. Colby bent down and taking hold of Don's left elbow offered the strength and support the lead agent needed to stand up holding the mathematician in his arms. Charlie's head fell backward eliciting a strangled sound and exposing the wound to his neck more clearly. The sight of the raw and abused flesh sent a wave of emotion through Don that was too convoluted to try and sort out at that moment. Colby quickly moved to support the young man's head as they slowly made their way out of the dim shed into the bright morning sun.

As they made their way over the uneven ground Don couldn't help but think how light his brother seemed to be. He couldn't have always been this light... could he? Charlie had always been a little slender but the waif he held in his arms felt little more than flesh and bones. Forcing that mental image down Don looked ahead and concentrated on his destination sitting a mere 50 yards away.

Jenny and the boys were still standing near the vehicles, faces pale, eyes large. Don's mind whirled. He knew he should be providing some direction, but his overwhelming instinct to be with Charlie was interfering with his thoughts. "David," he said desperately as they neared the vehicles, "I need you to take care of some things."

David moved up beside him. "Name it."

"I need you to take over the command center. Call in the volunteers; let them know Charlie has been found. Call Merrick and let him know, and tell him I will call him later. Get a unit out here to process the shed." He paused – did he cover everything?

"No problem – I've got it," said David steadily. "Go with Charlie – I'll handle anything that comes up."

They had reached the SUV. Someone – Don didn't notice who – opened the door to the backseat. "Get in, Don," said Colby, "I'll hand him in to you."

Don hesitated, glancing at Jenny and the boys. "I should say something to them," he thought.

Megan caught the look. "I'll talk to them – go ahead and get in." She crossed over to the family, huddled together, apprehension on their faces, and knelt down and addressed the boys. "We want to thank you for the brave thing that you did this morning," she said. "We wouldn't have found him if it wasn't for you."

Little Joey spoke up, wide eyed. "Is he dead?"

Megan closed her eyes briefly, trying to conquer the lump in her throat. "No," she said, opening them and looking at Joey and Jacob. "He's very sick, but we're taking him to the hospital so they can fix him up. You boys may very well have saved his life." She rose, looking at Jenny, and held out her hand. "Thank you. You have some amazing children."

Jenny took it, looking down at her boys. "Yes," she said wonderingly, "I certainly do."

Sheriff Hudson's deputy stepped forward and spoke to Jenny. "I'll run you back up the hill," he said. "We'll need to get statements from you and your boys – it won't take long."

Megan turned and ran back to the SUV. Don was in the backseat with his arms around Charlie, who was leaning against him, and Colby was standing at the driver's side door, getting directions from Hudson. David was already heading out in the other vehicle. Megan and Colby piled into the SUV at the same time.

"We're going to follow the sheriff," said Colby. They pulled out slowly, trying to keep down the bouncing of the vehicle on the dirt road. When they hit pavement, they floored it, lights flashing.

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Twenty-five miles were covered in twenty minutes, but it felt like twenty hours to Don. Charlie kept drifting off – into sleep or unconsciousness, Don wasn't sure which – and would almost immediately stop breathing for a few seconds, then come to with a gasp followed by a weak cough. The cough sounded wet, as though he were trying to breathe under water, and his eyes would flutter open, but never focused on anything. He kept repeating this cycle, over and over. Occasionally Charlie coughed a fine spray of blood that stained Don's arm, sending Don into almost unbearable panic.

He tried talking to Charlie to keep him awake, thinking that would keep his breathing even, and it seemed as though Charlie tried to hold his eyes open a bit longer when he heard Don's voice, but the effort always overwhelmed him, and he inevitably went out again. In the brief intervals when he was awake, he shook and shivered, even though he felt to Don as though he were burning up. The sound of his breathing was perhaps the most frightening; it was labored and uneven, and was accompanied by an ominous gurgling sound.

The arrival at the hospital was a blur for Don. He was dimly aware of hands lifting Charlie onto a stretcher, and running into the ER corridor. His own eyes were riveted on Charlie's face as he ran alongside, and although that was normally not allowed, none of the hospital personnel had the nerve to tell him he couldn't. He was finally stopped short at the door to the Trauma Room by a doctor, and stood helplessly with his hands at his sides, staring through the small window. One of the nurses grabbed his arm and pulled him gently but insistently out into the waiting room, and did her best to get him focused on admission paperwork. Megan and Colby stood nearby in the hallway, watching, and exchanged tired glances.

"Shit," said Colby rubbing his face.

A doctor came out forty minutes later and sat down next to Don. Megan and Colby walked over.

"I'm Doctor Frist. I understand you are his brother. He is in pretty rough shape and is drifting in and out of consciousness. The x-rays show four broken ribs on the left. One of the jagged edges has punctured the lower lobe of his left lung."

Don paled visibly at this news and realized that must have been the gurgling sound her heard when Charlie was laboring to breathe.

"He has a collapse of the lower portion of his left lung due to bleeding. It's called a hemothorax. We have inserted a chest tube to drain off the blood and allow his lung to re-inflate. He suffered a stab wound to the left shoulder, which has become infected. Can you tell me how long ago these injuries occurred, because it is apparent that they did not happen today."

Don thought for a moment – the conference room seemed like a lifetime ago. "Monday. You said that his shoulder is infected, is that why he felt so hot?"

"He is running a high temp right now, 103.8. I'm sure his white blood count is off the charts. It will be an hour before we get his labs back, but I have already started him on IV antibiotics to combat the infection and try to head off any complications."

"What complications?"

"Between the fever and the necrosis of the tissues around the wound, as well as the drainage that we are seeing, there is a concern for sepsis."

Again Don paled. Megan couldn't believe that he could get any whiter without becoming translucent.

"The injury to his neck also has me concerned. That seems to be a newer injury; can you tell me what caused it?"

"Yeah. He's been standing with a noose around his neck for the last day and a half," Don said bitterly.

Dr. Frist's mouth dropped, then recognition dawned on his face. He had seen this on the news. "This is the kidnap victim."

Don nodded and Frist frowned. "You just found him?"

"Right."

"And he was standing when you found him?"

"Yes."

Frist shook his head in amazement. "Looking at him, I would have said that was impossible." Don said nothing. "Okay, then, we're dealing with extreme fatigue, dehydration and malnutrition on top of the injuries. Any other injuries that you know of? He has a good-sized bruise on his face as well as a sizable lump on the back of his head."

Don shook his head, his jaw set angrily. Going through the list of injuries reminded him how much he hated Tatum.

"The bruising and swelling in his head coupled with his wavering consciousness concerns me. He may be suffering from a concussion. I am going to order a CT scan of his brain. As soon as we have more I will let you know." He stood and looked at Don.

"Thanks," said Don briefly, his face impassive. Frist nodded, glanced at Megan and Colby, and headed back into the ER bay. Don propped his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands.

"Don," said Megan gently. "We should call your father. Do want me to do it?"

"Oh, my God," Don's head popped up. "No, no, I'll do it."

He stepped outside into the bright sunshine and dialed his father. _What do I tell him?_ he wondered as the phone rang. He didn't have much time to decide – his father picked up on the second ring.

"Dad." The word came out as a croak.

"Donnie! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm good. Dad – we found him. We're here at the hospital."

There was a huge, shuddering sigh on the other end. The next words came out as a sob. "Thank God." Alan could get out no more. Don could hear him crying on the other end of the line, and tears sprang to his own eyes. He swallowed, trying to fight them back, and waited for his father to compose himself.

"I'm sorry," Alan finally gasped.

"It's okay, Dad."

"How is he?"

Don paused. "I don't think – not so good, Dad. He's pretty sick. The doctor thinks he has an infection. They're just checking him out now. I'll probably know more in a little while."

Silence on the other end, then, "Okay." More silence. Then Alan asked again, "Are you okay?"

Don answered more gruffly than he intended. "Yeah, I'm fine." _Just fine. _"I'll call you back when I find out more."

"All right. Donnie?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

Don swallowed. "Yeah, okay. I'll talk to you soon."

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An hour passed. The wait seemed interminable. Megan and Colby had found coffee and had handed Don a cup when he came back in. He was sitting, hunched over, both hands on the cup, which was half full and long since cold, when Dr. Frist came back out. He sat down next to Don, looking grim. Don straightened, his gut tightening instinctively.

"Okay, here's what we've got," Frist began, without preamble. "The CT scan showed that he has a mild concussion, but that is not what concerns me. Your brother's labs came back confirming my fears. His shoulder is bad – he has a condition called cellulitis, which is a severe infection. What is most worrisome to me is that he does indeed have sepsis. The infection has spread to his bloodstream. The sepsis seems to have developed relatively recently, but it is an extremely dangerous condition. The IV antibiotics will help a little but he will need additional drugs tailored to his particular infection. I am going to recommend to you that you move him. This is a small rural hospital – we have no infectious disease experts here, and you will want that expertise. We can arrange for a life-flight to Portland."

"No," said Don. The others looked at him. "I'd rather fly him to L.A."

Frist's brow furrowed. "There's nothing wrong with that, except that we have no agreements with L.A. hospitals, and it is further away."

"We have a jet and a chopper at the airport," said Don. "We can fly him back in one of those."

"You'll have no medics," reminded Frist.

Don frowned. "I – I just really feel like he should be closer to home –," He broke off. He was being irrational, he knew, but it just felt like the right thing to do. He wanted to bring his brother home.

Frist frowned, thinking. Ordinarily he would not have considered this, but this was a special case. The whole country had been riveted by the situation, and nearly everyone in his own county had turned out to help. Surely he could contribute something himself. "Okay, let me talk to the hospital administrator. If we send a couple of people with you, can you get them back here?"

"Yeah," said Don. He actually didn't have any idea, but he hoped that he could pull some strings. They stood, and Don stuck out his hand. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," said Frist, taking Don's hand. "I have to convince my administrator."

It actually turned out to be easier than expected. The government jet, preferable because it was faster, had a wide enough aisle to accommodate the stretcher, so it became the obvious choice. Merrick touched base with Tompkins, who approved another trip with the jet to bring back the hospital staff and equipment. Dr. Frist was coming off shift in an hour, and received approval to go with himself and to brief the doctors who would be taking over Charlie's care in L.A.. They rounded up David, and the pilot, who had been cooling his heels at the local diner. Merrick assigned one of the Portland agents to close out the local investigation, and within two hours, they were landing at Van Nuys.

Don had called ahead to his father to let him know they were bringing Charlie back. He didn't give him the details of Charlie's precarious condition. He told himself that it was because he didn't want Alan driving to the hospital in a panicked state, pushing down the guilt he felt at leaving out yet more information.

He had been glued to Charlie's side during the flight. His breath sounds were more normal, but he was still breathing irregularly, stopping, gasping, and starting again under the oxygen mask. His neck had been bandaged – during the cleaning of it, they had prepped him by shaving under his jaw line, then thought better of it and had done his whole face, so he looked cleaner and a little more normal. Without the stubble, however, he looked even more pale. The purple bruise stood out like a beacon, and his face was damp with sweat. From time to time he would move his lips, but no sound would come out, and when his eyes opened, which was infrequent, they were unfocused. Don found seeing his brother's eyes, usually brimming with life and intelligence, dull and unseeing the most disconcerting and it made him writhe inwardly.

Dr. Frist was monitoring Charlie's vitals throughout the trip, and with each reading, grew increasingly grim. Don noticed his expression, and when the plane landed, he shot to his feet, anxious to get his brother to the relative safety of the hospital.

Frist rode with medics in the ambulance, so that left no room for Don. He and his team followed in their own vehicles, and by the time he got through the ER doors at Huntington Memorial, Charlie had already been taken in to an exam room. He knew immediately which one – his father, Amita and Larry were standing outside, pale and silent, stricken by what they had just seen. His father turned and saw him as he approached, and clasped him in a hug that had the force of desperation. For a moment, the only sound they could hear was the beeping of the monitors coming from the exam room, and the muffled voices of the ER staff working on Charlie.

Alan stepped back and looked at Don and his team, and even in his distress, he noticed how tired and subdued they looked. His eyes found Don's. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Don put his arm around his father, and indicating Amita and Larry should follow, walked him over to a small group of seats. His agents watched him sit down, face them, and start talking, and then saw Alan put his head in his hands. Amita was wiping her eyes, and Larry was patting her awkwardly on the shoulder with one hand, and surreptitiously wiping his own eyes with his other. Megan, Colby, and David exchanged rueful looks, and turned away – only to jerk their heads toward the exam room. The voices inside had risen by several decibels, and the ominous sound of a single high-pitched tone filled the hallway.

-------------------------------End Chapter 16-----------------------------------------------


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Don had no recollection of crossing the room. He found himself bursting through the examining room doors, thinking, _It's not fair – he made it through all of that, he can't go now – it's not fair. _He was screaming, screaming Charlie's name, "Charlie, wake up! Wake up!"

He saw a nurse kneeling on the edge of the stretcher with her hands on his brother's chest, pushing down with quick rhythmic motions while she counted out loud. At the head of the stretcher a tall man was in the process of putting a tube down his brother's throat. Don tried to push further into the room but unseen hands reached out to restrain him. He heard a voice yelling, "Get him out of here!" but he neither realized nor cared that these comments were directed at him. A voice on the far side of the room bellowed, "Get security in here!" Then he heard a word that sent pure terror plunging through his heart.

"Clear!"

He tried vainly to get to Charlie, still screaming his name, even as the paddles came down. He saw his brother's body leap convulsively, and over it all came the sickening sound of the single tone, whining a maddening scream of its own.

"Charlie!" he screamed again, leaning against the arms that held him, as the paddles came down again, and his brother's torso jumped. The whine stopped abruptly, and was replaced by a steady blip blip, that sounded unnaturally loud over the din of activity in the room.

The doctor leveled a piercing stare at Don, and spoke to the security guard who had materialized behind the distraught agent, "Get him out of here." Don, suddenly weak-kneed, allowed himself to be propelled out of the room, and turned slowly to look at the shocked faces of his father, his agents and Larry and Amita. He took a step, and staggered as the pounding of his own pulse filled his ears. The last thing he remembered was their dimming, swirling faces, and he fell; unaware of Colby and David lunging and catching him as he pitched face forward.

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Don awoke a few minutes later in an adjoining exam room, to a pair of green eyes that regarded him calmly, searchingly. He pushed away the oxygen mask that was being held over his face and tried to sit up, and was forced back down by surprisingly strong arms.

"Are you always that composed?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "No, you lie there for a minute. I'll tell you when you can get up."

"Charlie –"

"They're still in there with him. You've only been out a few minutes. They've got Dr. Greene in there now; he heads our infectious disease group. Your brother is in good hands." She stepped back and poked her head out the door. "You can come in."

Alan stepped in slowly, moving like an automaton, Megan behind him. The intern took one look at Alan's face, and guided him to a chair. "You sit down. We don't need another one of you going down."

Alan resisted for a moment, looking at Don. "Donnie?"

"He's okay," said the intern.

"I'm okay, Dad," Don said at the same time. He felt utterly foolish, and horribly guilty. '_Great! That's just what Dad needed to see,'_ he thought to himself angrily. He pushed himself up to a sitting position as Alan sank into the chair.

"Didn't I ask you stay down?" the intern admonished him sharply. She looked at Alan. "Does he always listen this well?"

"I'm okay," said Don. "I won't go anywhere, I'll just sit." He desperately wanted to reassure his father that he was okay, and he looked at the intern, his eyes pleading. She glanced at him and at Alan, and then turned to Megan.

"I need to get back in there. Please see to it that these two stay here, and stay sitting." Turning her eyes back to Don she said, "You'd better be here when I come back out."

"I will," said Don meekly. As soon as she was gone, he swung his legs sideways and slid off the bed.

Megan and Alan cried out simultaneously.

"Don!"

"It's okay, Dad. I'm going to sit – I'm just coming over to sit with you." He felt a quick wave of dizziness, but by the time he had made it to his father, it had passed. He took the chair next to Alan, with a quick look at Megan, who was regarding him suspiciously, with the look of someone who was studying a particularly volatile subject. Don glanced sideways, and his heart constricted. Alan looked like he had aged ten years; worse yet; it looked like all of the fight had gone out of him. He sat slumped in his chair; staring at the far wall, eyes unseeing. Don put an arm around him. He wanted to reassure him, to tell him Charlie would be okay, but after what he had just seen he wasn't sure himself. Pushing the horrible fear away, he sat, with his arm still around his father, and waited.

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It seemed an eon, but it was only about a half hour when the intern poked her head back in the room. Don detachedly noticed that she had a full pretty mouth to go with the green eyes. She raised an eyebrow again when she saw Don next to his father but said only, "The doctors are coming out to talk to you. You can stay there."

When the two doctors entered the room a minute later, Megan quietly slipped out. The first, a tall lanky man with blue eyes, stopped Alan as he tried to rise, saying kindly, "Please, stay seated. I'm Dr. Greene from our Infectious Disease Unit, and this is Dr. Achouri, our attending in the ER today." Achouri said nothing, just glared at Don, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but returned the glare defiantly.

Greene continued. "We received the report from Dr. Frist, and I imagine that you know the extent of his injuries, and that he has sepsis." Don and Alan nodded, waiting. "The sepsis has progressed into septic shock. This is an extremely serious condition, accompanied by a severe drop in blood pressure, among other things. It was the drop in pressure that caused his cardiac arrest."

Alan shut his eyes at the words 'cardiac arrest'. His boy was far too young to have those devastating words associated with him.

"We have stabilized him. We will have to do a bit of work on his shoulder, which is the source of the infection. We need to remove some infected tissue, and drain an abscess that we found in the glenoide cavity."

Seeing the look of confusion on their faces, he gently explained, "That's the space between the top of his arm and his shoulder. It's part of the shoulder socket and is surrounded by ligaments. He will need further surgery on that shoulder later, when he's stronger, but for right now we are focused on fighting the infection."

"We have put him on several drugs – very strong antibiotics to fight the infection, drugs to reverse clotting, which is a risk factor with sepsis, and drugs to raise his blood pressure. We have also put him on a respirator, which became necessary when he coded. Due to his condition and the septic shock he will remain on a respirator until he has had both procedures on his shoulder and the shock is under control. Once we remove the necrotic tissue and drain the abscess he will be moved up to the ICU. You will be able to see him there, but you will need to take turns. ICU visitation is 10 minutes per hour, one visitor at a time." He paused. "Do you have any questions?"

Don looked at his father. Alan had opened his eyes again but said nothing. Don swallowed, fearing to ask the question, but he had to know. "What are his chances?"

Greene paused for a moment, and his eyes softened. "In individuals with other complications, septic shock has a 50 to 60 mortality rate," he said gently. Alan leaned forward and put his face in has hands. Greene continued, "I understand from Dr. Frist what he went through – it has seriously taxed his body. On the other hand, the sheer will that kept him on his feet indicates the strength of his mind. I never underestimate that." He handed Don his card. "I will be monitoring Charlie personally. If you have questions, you can reach me at any time on my cell phone or pager."

Alan had straightened in his chair, and now rose and finally spoke, clasping the doctor's hand with both of his. "Thank you, doctor." He clasped Dr. Achouri's hand also. "Thank you for taking care of him." Greene nodded, and shook Don's hand, and they headed out of the room. Don had gotten no handshake from Achouri, just another glare, which Achouri transferred to the agents just outside the door as he exited, who had drifted over to listen in on the conversation from the hall.

Colby watched them go. "They'd be quite a pair for 'good cop/ bad cop'," he said.

David nodded. "Yeah, the one guy didn't have much of a bedside manner."

"Well, we weren't really supposed to be there," Megan reprimanded. She stopped as Don and Alan came out of the room. Her heart twisted as she looked at their faces. Don had some semblance of composure back, but underneath, she could see the fear and exhaustion. And Alan – Alan looked crushed. Stepping forward, she embraced him in a heartfelt hug. "Come on," she said. "Let's go find the cafeteria and get some coffee. It's going to be a long night."

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Two hours later the same pretty intern came down to the cafeteria and found them. She led the group, including Larry and Amita, upstairs, but only Don and Alan were actually allowed into the ICU, so the rest of them congregated in a waiting room outside. The nurse stopped the Eppes men outside of the door. "Only one of you can go in at a time," she said curtly. "There is a 10 minute limit."

"We heard," said Don, irritated by her tone. To his father he said more gently, " Dad, you go." Alan nodded and stepped into the room.

The sight of his youngest literally took his breath away. He stopped in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot by shock. Charlie looked small and defenseless in the middle of the mass of bandages, tubes and equipment. His neck and shoulder were swathed in gauze, and his left arm was in a sling. There was a tube emanating out of the middle of the bandages on his shoulder, another out of the left side of his chest, still others, from two different IV's, and God knew what else, snaked around him. Wires added to the mess – connected to pads on his chest. The respirator tube was taped to his face, and hung out of the side of his mouth. The equipment all around him emitted rhythmic, ominous-sounding clicks and hisses.

Alan moved forward slowly, almost unconsciously, and sank into a chair, eyes fixed on what he could see of his son's pale face. "Oh, Charlie, little one," he moaned, leaning forward to rest his head gently on his son's right arm, which felt unbearably hot. The tears came, welling up from a pain he had not felt since Margaret died, and had hoped to never feel again.

The nurse found him that way when she returned, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Time's up sir."

Alan stood up quickly, and began walking hurriedly toward the door. "Already? I was going to let Don come in for a minute." He looked at Don, standing just outside the door. "Can he go in for just a minute?"

"No, I'm sorry," said the nurse firmly. "He can take his turn in an hour."

"But-," Alan began to protest.

"It's okay, Dad; I'll go next time," said Don. He was disappointed, but he wasn't about to let his father know that. "Come on; let's go sit out in the waiting area." He led his father out, who was muttering something about Nurse Ratchett.

Everyone in the waiting room turned when they came out, and Alan got the impression they were waiting for a report. At a loss, he said brokenly, "He's okay right now. He's sleeping," and as tears started again, made his way blindly to a chair, guided by Don. Don felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Merrick standing beside him.

Don turned and Merrick clasped his hand. "How are you?" he asked quietly.

Don's mouth worked, and he nodded. "Okay, I guess," he finally managed. Merrick thought otherwise. Don looked bedraggled and exhausted, and the pain in his eyes conveyed volumes.

"I've put you in for leave," said Merrick. "Take as long as you need. I've got your people in too."

He in fact was sorely missing the best team under his command; the rest of the agents in the office were strapped from both a manpower and an experience perspective, and he himself was working eighteen-hour days, trying to hold the office together. He was not about to tell Don that – he knew that Don would never feel right about taking the leave if he did. Someday soon, though, he thought, he would let Don know how much he appreciated him. In the meantime, leave was the least he could do.

He looked down at Alan, then back up at Don. "You realize that you and your people will need to go through a psychiatric evaluation. I would like you all to get that scheduled as soon as possible."

Don nodded. "I'll deal with that later," he thought, but what he said was, "Thank you, I appreciate the time off."

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When Don's turn came to go in, he headed eagerly for the room, but as he stepped inside, he suddenly wished he had let his father come instead. The person in the bed couldn't be his brother. Don approached the bed slowly, taking in the yards of tubing and wires, the bandages, the infernal respirator. Charlie looked dwarfed by all of it, pale and so still. Don touched his dark curls softly, tentatively, then feeling the warmth, touched his forehead, chagrined at the heat that radiated from it. He sat down heavily, the events of the past few days swirling through his head, with them a myriad of emotions. As he sat, the thoughts and potpourri of feelings began to gel into something harder. "I'm going to get them, Buddy," he said, fury building inside of him. "Tatum got better than he deserved, but the rest of them are going to pay." He looked at his brother through his tears. "They're going to pay," he whispered.

-----------------------------End Chapter 17----------------------------------------------------


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

The seemingly endless vigil began. Don was letting Alan go in during the short visits – Alan lives for them – Don told himself. He wouldn't admit to himself that he couldn't stand to see Charlie that way; that he was apprehensive of the hate and rage that took hold when he saw his brother; that he was afraid of losing control; that he couldn't handle the emotional pain. He wasn't actually aware of those thoughts – he buried them in a vague sense of unease; that grew uncomfortably every time he thought of entering Charlie's room.

During one visit they tried to get Amita in by claiming she was Charlie's sister, but Nurse Ratchett asked for her ID, and shooed her out. Colby and David took their leave around dinnertime, exhausted. Somehow Megan found the stamina to go and get food with Larry and bring it back for the group, but she finally succumbed also, and left around 8:00. She had ridden to the airport with Don, and her vehicle was still back at the office, so she caught a cab home. Larry had come with Amita, and the two of them stayed, waiting anxiously with Don for Alan to come out after each visit.

Alan knew that Charlie was being monitored, but he had yet to be present when anyone was there taking readings. He wanted to ask someone but he didn't know whom, other than Nurse Ratchett, and he would rather not deal with her, so he resorted to sneaking glances at Charlie's chart, which was in a folder on the door. This was no simple task because the chart, a thick three ring binder, contained what seemed like an entire ream of paper that had several different sections with tabs of all different colors. The sectional color scheme may have meant something to the staff, but Alan had to flip through an enormous amount of data to find what he was looking for. The odd part was the fact that his son's basic information; name, date of birth, allergies, weight and height were repeated on almost every sheet within the chart, but each time in a different place. After spending nearly all of one visit to figure out where to look in the chart before he found the section he wanted. It was the green tab. Charlie's blood pressure seemed to be low but holding steady, but his temperature, which started on the chart at 104.1, had been increasing slightly each hour.

When Alan emerged from Charlie's room after the 9:00 visit he looked both frightened and utterly defeated. "105.7," he said dejectedly as he sat. "Why is it still going up?"

Don's heart sank. He glanced up as the door opened, then stood up as Dr. Greene emerged. Alan turned his head, and then leaped to his feet also, his heart in his throat. "Dr. Greene," he said. "How is he?"

Greene frowned slightly. "Not as well as I had hoped. His temperature is still rising. We're putting cooling packs around him to help bring it down. I've ordered a different antibiotic base to see if it has more of an effect."

He looked at them, and saw the concern and frustration in their faces. "When you are dealing with this sort of infection it is normal to have to switch antibiotics mid-treatment. Finding the right mixture or antibiotic cocktail is essential to the success of knocking out the infection. He is being monitored closely because if one drug or one combination of drugs is not working we want to quickly switch to something else. It will be at least a couple of hours, maybe longer, before we know how the new antibiotic combination is performing. I suggest that you all go home and get some sleep. We will call you if anything significant develops."

Alan nodded, but he had no intention of leaving. He thanked Dr. Greene as he left and looked at Don. "You can go in at the next visit," he said, "and then maybe Larry and Amita would be kind enough to take you home."

"That's not necessary," said Don. "I have my own vehicle. And I don't need to go home yet."

"You're exhausted," Alan retorted, "and you shouldn't be driving. Besides, I'm staying here tonight and I'll need you to spell me in the morning. One of us needs to be here. You can go in again before you leave."

Don felt his gut wrench at the thought of facing Charlie in his battered condition again. The memory of his face when they cut him down flashed across his mind, and the rage that was beginning to consume him started to resurface. He wasn't sure in his exhausted state of mind that he would be able to control that rage – perhaps it was safer not to tempt fate.

"Okay, then," he said, "maybe I should go now. I _am_ pretty beat."

Alan looked at him sharply. Something was wrong. Don's eyes held a hint of something he had not seen there since… It was at the end of Margaret's battle that Alan first saw true fear in his oldest son's eyes. The haunted look was back, but it seemed veiled behind another emotion; one he had not seen since his eldest was in fugitive recovery. Don hadn't been in to see Charlie since early afternoon. Why on earth did he not want to see him before he left? _What's wrong with you?_ he felt like asking, but he didn't want Don to back off from his commitment to go home and rest, so he said nothing.

Outside, Don turned down Larry and Amita's offer of a ride, and drove himself home. He felt an overwhelming need to be alone. His apartment seemed like a stranger to him – it seemed like years since he had been there. He stood in his bedroom in a daze, not sure of what to do next. Suddenly completely overcome with exhaustion, he gave up the battle with his thoughts, and crawled into his bed, face down, almost immediately falling into a dead sleep.

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Alan spent the night dozing between visits. Nurse Ratchett had gone off duty, and the night nurse was kind enough to wake him each hour. He spent each minute he could with Charlie, wiping his forehead with damp cloths, ruffling his hair, rubbing his arm, doing anything he could to let Charlie know he was there. Midnight was his darkest hour – the temperature had risen to 105.8, and Alan was beginning to despair. "Please God," he prayed silently, tears forming again as he looked at his son's pale face. "Please." He staggered out to the waiting area, overcome with grief.

His next visit was at 2:00 a.m. because the night nurse had let him sleep through a visit, but Alan was so exhausted, he didn't even realize it. He paused at the folder – and left it there. He didn't have the emotional strength to look. He stood by Charlie's bedside, and laid a hand gently on his head, and then frowned, puzzled. Was it just him, or was Charlie decidedly cooler? He looked down, and realized the cooling packs had been removed, and whirled to grab the chart from the door. 102.5, he read joyfully, and he clutched the binder to his chest, as tears came yet again.

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Don awoke at a little after 6:00 a.m. with a start. The deep and dreamless sleep that he had succumbed to the previous night had morphed into one plagued by nightmares. The last dream he remembered featured a screaming cardiac monitor, and left him trembling. For a moment, he thought he was back in the ER, before he realized that the high pitched wail was his alarm. With shaking hands and a pounding heart he shut it off. He hadn't set it the night before – he must have left it set on Monday. It had been going off all week with no one to shut it off until the timer kicked in – the neighbors probably loved that.

He staggered into the bathroom, and looked at his reflection blearily. Two days worth of stubble covered his face, and red rimmed eyes starred back at him. "I look like hell," he thought. "No, I look worse."

He grabbed a drink of water to clear his dry throat, and then called his father's cell phone. His heart began pounding after the second ring. When his father finally picked up after the fifth ring; Don asked about Charlie, his stomach constricting at the news that he was sure he would hear. It took him a moment to comprehend what his father had said to him. Every muscle in his body had tightened in preparation to hear that his brother had lost the fight. When his mind actually registered the words 'Charlie's temperature has come down' he felt as though someone had let the air out of him. Feeling weak, he sank bonelessly onto the edge of the bed trying to keep from sobbing.

Much to Don's relief his father sounded much better as well, and Don promised him he would be there as soon as he could get cleaned up. Hanging up the phone, he had to wait for a few minutes for the shaking to stop. As it subsided the relief and joy he felt that Charlie was getting better was replaced by something darker. The anger that he had kept at bay the previous evening blossomed like an inferno in his chest. With steely eyes and a new resolve he took a deep breath before getting up and heading for the bathroom.

After a shower, a shave and some clean clothes, he scrounged through his cupboards for a granola bar and some coffee. As he pulled out into the morning traffic he found himself on the way to the office instead of going to the hospital.

"Just a quick stop," he told himself, "to see what's going on, and then I'll head for the hospital."

Curious eyes, and "How's Charlie?" followed him through the bullpen. Megan was already in the office, and she turned in surprise when she heard Don's voice asking, "What are you doing here?"

"I should ask you that," she said, smiling, but her eyes were narrowed. "Why aren't you at the hospital?"

"I'm going in just a minute. I called – he's doing better."

Megan smiled. "I know; I called too."

"Yeah, me too," said David's voice behind them. He grinned as they turned.

"Well, we're a pathetic bunch," said Megan. "Colby at least has some brains."

"Yeah," said David, "He's always angling for vacation – he won't be here-" He broke off, looking at the door. "Guess you're dumber than I thought," he said, as Colby ambled up, munching a bagel.

Don stood, contemplating them quietly, feeling a small sense of peace at the normalcy of it all. It was fleeting, however, as his thoughts turned to Charlie, and the hell he had gone through. The cold hard rage returned with an almost physical blow, and when he spoke to his group, the quiet intensity of his voice made them all turn. "I don't know what Merrick has going in here," he said, "and I don't care. I want the men that took Charlie, and I want them as soon as possible. That will be our priority until it's done."

"That's what we're here for, boss," said Colby looking back at him steadily, and the others nodded.

"Good, then let's get on it. I need to go give my Dad a break, but you know how to reach me. I'll be back in later."

Megan watched him go, thoughtfully. "What a disturbing choice of words," she thought. "'I need to give my Dad a break,' – not 'I need to go see Charlie.'" She turned back to her desk, frowning slightly.

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Don walked up as Alan was talking to Dr. Greene. His father turned to him, obviously tired, but beaming, and wrapped him in a quick hug. "His temperature's down to 101.6, and his blood pressure is nearly normal," he crowed. "Dr. Greene says we may be able to take him off the respirator later this morning, and wake him up."

"Wow, that's great," said Don quietly.

Dr. Greene held up a hand. "He not out of the woods yet. An infection like this does not clear overnight. He will need to stay on antibiotics for a while yet, and he has his other injuries to deal with. We are very encouraged, however. When we find the right antibiotic combination, the results are sometimes quite dramatic." He left them, promising to check in later.

Alan sighed happily, and clasped his hands together. He smiled at Don, his smile fading as he saw his son's face. "Donnie, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," muttered Don, and he turned away. He still had his office ID tag on his shirt, and Alan spied it as he turned.

"You went in to work?"

"Just for a minute. I needed to get a couple things rolling."

"You needed to get a couple of things rolling?" Alan stared at Don incredulously. The nameless emotions he had seen the previous evening were still there, but barely recognizable under the cold eyes. Alan sighed. "Donnie, please come and sit down for a moment, we need to talk."

Don saw a lecture coming on and he was in no mood for it. Gritting his teeth, he stifled his impatience and allowed himself to be guided to one of the chairs in the ICU waiting lounge.

"Donnie, what are you doing? Your brother is in there fighting for his life, and you go into the office before you come here? What could be so important that it takes precedence over your family?" Alan stood up and started pacing. "I don't understand what is happening with you. Charlie is finally coming out of this nightmare and I would think that you would want to be here with him when he wakes up."

Don stood at his father's last words with so much rage in his eyes that Alan backed up a step.

"You have no idea! You didn't live with the image of him strung up to the rafters for the last two days fearing that if he lost his balance he would lose his life. You didn't have to stand by helplessly as they beat him so hard his ribs broke, or watch him bleed on the conference room floor."

Alan, suddenly wobbly at the graphic descriptions, sank into a seat. Concern for Don and his emotional state began to emerge, adding to his worries over Charlie. The realization of what Don had to stand by and witness hit home. _'It must have been pure torture,_' thought Alan. He pulled his attention back to Don, who was continuing to rant.

"Am I glad that he is doing better? Of course I am, but have you stopped to think about the long term affects? This is far from over, Dad. Charlie went through trauma that will haunt him for years to come. I resent the implication that I don't care or that I put my job before my brother. I won't be happy until the bastards who hurt him are caught and pay for what they have done… ALL of them."

By the time Don had finished he was breathing hard, and his voice had raised enough that he was getting looks from the ICU staff down the hall. Alan felt a ball of fear form in his gut, as he looked at his son's face. Charlie was not the only one who would be haunted for a long time over this experience. He didn't know what to say to Don at this point. He wanted to comfort him and scream at him simultaneously. He did neither. Standing, his shoulders drooping, he turned and walked away. He stopped at the hallway leading down to the elevators and turned back speaking in a voice that conveyed both disappointment and fatigue.

"I will be back in a couple of hours. Someone needs to be here for Charlie so if you have to leave before I return, please call Larry or Amita."

With that Alan turned, and left Don standing there looking as though he had been slapped in the face. He stood for a moment, emotions swirling inside him, anger and frustration foremost among them. Turning, he flung a magazine angrily off a chair, and sat down to wait.

He wasn't sure exactly what time he was allowed in next, and had sat there longer than he thought he should, before he finally decided to check to see if he could be allowed in. Stepping into the ICU, he was startled to see Dr. Greene entering, gloved and gowned, followed by the green–eyed intern. He stepped up to Charlie's doorway, only to confront Nurse Ratchett. She eyed him dourly. "We're getting ready to change your brother's dressings. If you don't have a strong stomach, I don't recommend that you stay. If you must stay, grab a gown from the desk, and stand back."

Don wavered. His stomach wasn't the problem, at least not ordinarily. He had seen things in the field that would turn Nurse Ratchett's stomach. This, however, was his brother. Nurse Ratchett's demeanor was the deciding factor – she irritated him, and he decided he was not going to be pushed around. He got a gown from the desk, and stepped inside the doorway to Charlie's room.

They had rolled Charlie on his side slightly and were placing an absorbent mat underneath his shoulder. Dr. Greene looked up. "Agent Eppes. Good morning. I imagine your father told you that Charlie is doing much better this morning."

Don nodded, but he thought to himself as he looked at Charlie, _This is better?_ His unconscious brother lay limp and pale. With the sheets pulled down to Charlie's waist, Don could see how thin and frail he looked; how his ribs protruded.

"We plan to take Charlie off the respirator a bit later, but we wanted to check his wounds and redress them while he was still sedated – that can be a bit uncomfortable," continued Dr. Green, pulling up the tubing attached to Charlie's shoulder, which had a small plastic bulb at the end. He examined the contents; a small amount of reddish-orange fluid. "I think this can come out," he said.

They removed the bandages from Charlie's shoulder, revealing an ugly swollen gash, and Dr. Greene removed the tube, and the intern began cleaning the wound. He glanced up at Don, who grimaced. "We left this open, unstitched, for two reasons – one it needed to drain, and two, they will be opening it even further when he has surgery. They will close it up then." Shoulder re-bandaged, they began on Charlie's neck.

Don's stomach clenched when the neck was uncovered – it was raw, an angry oozing red, from just under his jaw line to his collarbone. He realized that Dr. Greene was speaking again. "This actually looks much worse than it is," he was saying. "Most of this is superficial skin injury – it should heal nicely, and I don't anticipate much scarring." _What about mental scarring?_ thought Don angrily. _Tell me how he's supposed to deal with that._

"He's finishing up the last of the sedative in that IV," Greene went on. "We can wake him up in a bit and get him off the respirator. Later today, the pulmonary specialists will take him down for another CAT scan, to see if his chest tube can come out." The man's calm cheerful tone was beginning to irritate Don. _Great, everything is just wonderful. Let's celebrate._

They closed up, gathering the bloody bandages and equipment, and headed out of the room. "Thank you," said Don, gruffly, awkwardly as they filed out. The intern glanced at him sideways as she passed; eyebrows raised, but said nothing.

Nurse Ratchett poked her head back in the doorway. "Okay, out, this visit is over."

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Charlie was running through a thick gray mist. It was lighter up ahead, and he knew he needed to get there soon; the wolves were right behind him. He was running as fast as he could, gasping for breath, but he could hear them gaining. He suddenly stumbled, and they were on him. One clamped its muzzle over his face; it didn't hurt, but it was standing on his chest, stepping up and down, and he couldn't breathe. The other one did hurt; it sunk its jaws into his shoulder and tore fiercely, the sharp claws on its feet digging into his side. Panic rose in him; he tried to cry out for help, but he couldn't make a sound. He raised his arm, feebly hitting at the wolf on his chest, knowing he was going to die.

Don had come in for the next visit period and was sitting alone watching Charlie. Nurse Ratchett had mumbled something about the respirator, and some so-and-so being late, and went off grumbling. Suddenly Charlie, previously so still, started moving, twisting his torso and kicking his legs. Don jumped up in a panic, and yelled out the door, "Hey, he's waking up!" He darted over to Charlie's bedside, as Charlie started thrashing wildly, waving his right arm in the air. Don looked back over his shoulder, _Were they coming?_ and then back at Charlie, frightened. _Should I hold him down? He's going to pull something out that he shouldn't. _Suddenly Charlie's eyes popped opened, wide and panicked. An alarm sounded on the respirator.

Hands were pushing Don out of the way, and an intern was talking loudly to Charlie as they reached for the mask. "Sir, calm down, and we will take this out. I want you to cough for me." He pulled the tube out, and Charlie gagged, coughed and gasped, eyes tearing, but still wide and panicked. He looked sideways, still gasping, and his eyes found Don. Recognition flashed in them, along with the fear, and his mouth moved, but no sound would come out.

Don stepped forward and grabbed his hand. "It's okay, buddy, I'm here; it's okay." His gut contracted at the look on his brother's face, pain mingled with horror, and a pleading look that tore at Don's heart.

The intern stepped back around Don and spoke to Charlie. "You won't be able to talk for a while. Don't be alarmed – your voice will come back. I want you to calm your breathing, slow it down for me; that's right." Slowly, Charlie's breathing regulated, and he began to relax, except for his grip on Don's hand. The wild stare abated, replaced by pain and confusion. Don couldn't decide which was worse. Nurse Ratchett bustled around to his IV, and added medication.

"Pain meds," she grunted. "This will make him a bit groggy." She flashed Don a look as she rounded the bed. "You can stay a little longer." She set a cup down by the bed. "Here are some ice chips."

Don bent over the bed, his hand still holding Charlie's, and ruffled his brother's hair gently. He felt tears rising, and he tried to hold them in; to look reassuring for Charlie's sake. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he said soothingly. "Everything's okay now." _What a lie._

"You're in the hospital – Huntington. Dad was here with you all night, he's coming back soon."

Charlie closed his eyes, his face still contorted with fear and pain. His thoughts were whirling. How did he get here? A sudden thought came – a dark place, and a rope, and –_Oh, God_, he thought, as the memory of Smith and the shed came back in a rush. _Oh God._ He looked back up at Don in a panic. "Don't leave me," he tried to say, his lips moving wordlessly. "Don't leave me!"

Don looked at him helplessly, stricken by the look of sheer terror on Charlie's face. What was he saying? "It's okay now," he said, feeling completely inadequate, trying to convince himself as much as Charlie. He felt a movement beside him. He thought it was the nurse again, and started when he heard his father's voice.

"Charlie," his father said half sobbing. He leaned forward to gently hug him, and Don stepped back. Charlie's eyes closed, and he released his grip on Don's hand. Alan straightened, smoothing his hand over his son's curls, crooning something in Yiddish. He made no effort to acknowledge Don. Charlie's eyes were open again, but beginning to look unfocused. He shuddered involuntarily as the medication began to take effect, then relaxed. Nurse Ratchett hurried into the room and barked, "Time's up. He needs to rest."

"I'll be back, Charlie," said Alan gently, as Charlie's eyes closed again. He turned and brushed past Don, leaving him staring at his brother. "Time's up," insisted Ratchett, and Don turned and left the room, grief warring with the anger in his gut.

-----------------------------End Chapter 18-------------------------------------------------


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Alan was already seated in the waiting room when Don came out. He walked over to stand by his father, uncertainly. "You got back here fast," he said. "You were only gone a couple of hours. Did you get any sleep?"

"No, I slept last night off and on." Alan's words were delivered lightly, but they sounded forced. "I showered, changed, got some breakfast, and called Larry and Amita." He glanced up at Don. "I've got it from here. You're free to go."

Don ignored the obvious dismissal. "They changed his bandages earlier, and took the tube out of shoulder. They said they would bring him down for a CAT scan later, to see if they can take the tube out of his chest." His cell phone chose that moment to ring, and he stepped away.

"Eppes," he answered quietly.

"Don, this is Megan. I wanted to let you know that they delivered Tatum's body. The morgue just called – they've got him ready. We're going to go down and ID him."

A flood of something dark and unidentifiable rushed through him. He glanced at his father. "All right. I'm going to meet you down there. My dad is back, and things are quiet here." He headed out of the waiting area, phone still to his ear.

"Charlie's doing okay?"

"Yeah." _Just fine._ "I'll see you there." He flipped his phone off and stepped onto an opening elevator. Alan watched him go, his jaw set grimly, then closed his eyes and settled back to wait.

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The pain medication was kicking in, and Charlie was floating. He opened his eyes with an effort. _Where was he again? Hospital. Where did Don and Dad go? They were here, right? _He closed his eyes again.

_So tired, need to sleep._ He felt himself drifting off, down, and his breathing grew slower, slower; then stopped altogether. Eyes still closed, his mouth opened, vainly trying to take in air. His body tensed, and panic swam to the forefront of his mind. _Can't breathe – need to wake up. _Eyes flying open wildly, he gasped, dragging in air, chest heaving. He lay there, just breathing for a moment while the panic slowly receded, pushed down by the drugs. His breathing calmed and his eyes grew heavy again. _So tired._

Alan stepped into the room at the next visit, nearly an hour later. He was disconcerted to hear Charlie suddenly open his eyes and gasp for air, and darted to his bedside. "Charlie?" he exclaimed, but even as he did, he saw the panicked look leave his son's face, and the eyelids droop. His son's eyes found his face with difficulty, and he saw a small frown. "Dad? Tryin' sleep." The voice was a raspy whisper, barely recognizable.

Charlie's eyes started to close again, and his breathing slowed. Suddenly it stopped, and he saw his son's face contort, eyes still closed, as he searched for air. Frightened, Alan looked wildly for the buzzer for the nurses' station, but just as he found it, Charlie's eyes flew open, and he gasped again. "Charlie? What's wrong? Are you having a hard time breathing?"

Charlie focused dimly on his father, his breathing slowing and his eyelids drooping again. "Tryin' sleep," he slurred again. Alan watched tensely as Charlie closed his eyes, and his heart leaped painfully as he saw he saw his son stop breathing yet again, then awake in a panic, gasping. He looked for the buzzer again, then realizing he was holding it, pressed the button.

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Don reached the morgue at the same time as his team and they walked into together. "How's Charlie?" asked David.

"Better," said Don, his voice devoid of emotion. "They took him off the respirator."

"Hey, that's great," said Colby heartily.

Don remembered the look of panic on Charlie's face, and the pain and confusion that followed. "Yeah," he said stonily, pushing through the doors to the morgue office.

They greeted the coroner; then followed her into the storage area. She handed them a plastic bag containing personal effects, Tatum's driver's license and a doctored passport. "These were found on him," she said, as she pulled out the drawer, and drew back the sheet. "I sent prints in, but didn't begin the exam yet."

The group drew in their breath collectively as they looked at the bearded figure on the slab. They were looking at the face of one of their captors, but it wasn't Tatum.

"Damn," said Colby.

"Smith – I mean Tatum – must have switched ID's," said David, shaking his head.

"He's betting we don't have an ID yet on this guy," said Megan thoughtfully. "He probably feels he has a better chance with his paperwork." She glanced at the ID's in the plastic pouch. "They look similar enough with the beards that he could pass it off."

"He killed one of his own guys for an ID?" asked Colby in disbelief.

"Maybe not," said David. "The witness said there was an argument, or a fight. Maybe Tatum just took advantage of what came out of that."

Don scarcely heard their words. He felt the dark feeling inside him intensify, consuming his consciousness. Tatum was still alive.

Hours later, that thought, although it had been submerged and pre-empted by other activities, still resonated in the back of his mind, and burned like a fire inside him. Don and his team had holed up in a conference room and worked all afternoon, collecting and reviewing documentation that had been gathered from the investigation so far. Merrick had put alerts out at the border, including the men's pictures. Only one other man besides Tatum had been ID'd. Merrick had obtained pictures of Lori Jeffers' brother, Miles Hickman, and Megan, Colby and David all agreed he had been one of their captors. Hickman had been the one to enter the convenience store and to leave with the decoy vehicle, and was still believed to be hiding out somewhere in the L.A. area.

In addition to the border alert, most wanted alerts had been posted with law enforcement across the country. There had been a few tenuous leads, sightings of Tatum or one of his men, or stories of someone suspicious hiding out here or there, but they had all been checked out, and yielded nothing. Don and the team read through them anyway, looking for anything that might have been missed. At one point Merrick stuck his head in the door, and chided them half-heartedly for not having enough sense to take granted leave, but upon hearing that Tatum was still at large, got interested enough to join the discussion himself for awhile. Before he left, he pulled Don aside.

"I meant what I said about the psyche evaluations," he said sternly. "I will not release any of you for field duty until you get them done. Make sure your people know that." He looked closely at his lead agent, but Don's face was inscrutable.

"Of course," said Don easily. "They already have them scheduled – we'll get them done." Merrick noted that Don said nothing about his own appointment, but nodded, and left it at that.

Don returned to the conference room and sat, rubbing his face with both hands. "We need to bring in Jeffers again," he said, sitting forward. "We need to lean on her some more. I bet she has a line on where her brother is."

Megan looked at the clock pointedly. "We'll line it up for tomorrow. I imagine you want to get back to the hospital."

Don glanced at the clock, and his heart skipped a beat. _How did it get to be six o'clock?_ He squirmed inwardly as guilt crept up on him, and tried to rationalize. _Dad would have called me if something came up. No news is good news, right?_

"Yeah," he said, "I have to get going."

"I'm stopping by too," said Megan. "Maybe we should pick up some food." Colby and David chimed in at that, saying they had planned on stopping too, and volunteered to pick up take out.

_Great, _Don thought, _this will score points with my dad. I don't show up until after six, and then it's with my team._ He impulsively felt that he needed to get moving, and it wasn't guilt that was driving the thought. He suddenly needed to see Charlie – he felt an abrupt anxiety as he thought of his brother, and how sick and fragile he had looked this morning. He'd been gone too long.

They arrived in the waiting area a short time later, bearing pizza. Amita and Larry were there, sitting with Alan; they had come over after classes. Alan glanced up as they approached, and Don's heart jumped again as he looked at his father's face, and saw the deep worry in his eyes. Alan addressed the group politely and thanked them for bringing pizza, and an uncomfortable silence fell.

"How is he doing?" prompted Don.

"Not very good," replied Alan gruffly. Larry and Amita exchanged glances, and Larry scratched his ear nervously.

"What? Why didn't you call me?" said Don in a panic, turning pale. "Is the infection back?"

"No, he seems to be responding to the antibiotic." Alan's tone was still stiff, and he pointedly ignored Don's first question. "He is having some issues with breathing. They've been testing him all afternoon." He rubbed his face tiredly.

Amita looked at Alan, realizing he wasn't going to elaborate, and out of pity for Don, who looked about to explode, continued. "They must have the whole hospital staff working on him. The head of neurology, pulmonary experts, anesthesiology…" she trailed off at the look on Don's face.

Megan looked back and forth between Don and Alan. _What the heck is going on here? _she wondered. She addressed Alan, figuring rightly that no matter what was going on between him and Don, that Alan would be polite enough to answer her. "So what is the problem? What do you mean by a breathing problem?"

Alan sighed, and seemed to deflate. "I don't know what it is exactly," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "He keeps fading out, then he stops breathing for a second or two, then he wakes up gasping for air. He keeps repeating it over and over again. He's been doing it since he came off the respirator. He's completely exhausted – it's pitiful."

"Wouldn't a sedative help? He seemed okay when he was sedated." asked Don.

Alan responded, finally looking at Don. "He was on the respirator then – they really don't know if he was breathing normally or not, because the respirator was doing the work. They're worried if they sedate him, he'll stop breathing altogether. They don't want to put him back on the respirator if they can help it, but they're going to have to do something soon. He needs to get some rest." He sighed and continued. "They ran all kinds of tests today, MRI, CAT scan of his chest and head, an EEG, a TCD - I can't even remember all of the letters. They were testing him for sensitivity to the sedative and to the pain killers, the last time they updated me."

Don stood for a moment, helplessly. He couldn't come to grips with the fact that this had been going on all afternoon, and he was completely unaware. Anger and hurt at not being told rose up in him, but it was suffocated by the guilt he felt for leaving in the first place. His shoulders slumped, and he walked away from the group, wordlessly, and stared unseeing through the windows that lined one side of the room. Alan watched him go, and Megan saw the hard line of his jaw relax, and something softer flit across his face. She exchanged glances with Colby and David, who were standing uncomfortably, still holding pizza boxes.

Colby jumped awkwardly into the silence. "The pizza's getting cold. Come on David, let's set these boxes out. Help yourself everyone." He and David set the boxes down on a coffee table, and although no one felt like eating, they politely took a slice. Alan was the only exception. He ignored the pizza entirely, and sat looking at Don, with an unidentifiable expression, unaware that the door to the ICU had opened, and a doctor was making his way across the room.

Larry saw him first. "Alan," he said softly and inclined his head. Alan turned and rose to his feet as the doctor reached him.

"Mr. Eppes," the doctor addressed Alan and held out his hand. Don turned at the voice, and seeing the doctor, headed back towards the group, his heart in his throat, standing uncertainly to the side.

"Dr. Goodman," replied Alan, taking the doctor's hand. His eyes searched the doctor's face, which was impassive.

"Mr. Eppes, we would like to speak with you about Charlie's condition. We think we know what might be going on, and have a hypothesis we would like to test. Can you come with me for a moment?"

"Certainly," said Alan. He spoke calmly but he felt a pang of despair. _All of this testing, and they _think _they know what's going on._ He indicated Don. "This is Charlie's brother, Don. I am sure he would want to sit in on this." Don winced inwardly at his father's cool tone.

"Absolutely," replied Goodman. "This way please." He turned and led the way back to the ICU, and the group watched them go, silently.

Goodman led them through the ICU to a small conference room where three other doctors sat waiting. Don recognized Dr. Greene, but had never seen the two other doctors. They sat, and Goodman introduced them. "I am Dr. Goodman, Neurology, this is Dr. Welsh, who will be picking up Charlie's general care from Dr. Greene, who I believe you have met, and this is Dr. Michaels, from our Psychiatric department." He looked at Alan. "I believe you have met already."

Alan nodded, and Don shook each of their hands. Dr. Welsh was a composed professional looking woman in her fifties, and Dr. Michaels was a clean cut man in his forties, slightly gray at the temples. He was casually dressed in a button down shirt and khaki pants, in contrast to the other doctors in their white lab coats, and Don eyed him a bit suspiciously. _Psychiatric department? _he thought. Dr. Michaels returned his look, coolly, and Don shifted uncomfortably.

Dr. Goodman continued, looking at Don. "This group, and others including pulmonary and other experts, have been looking at Charlie's case today."

Don glanced Alan, and cleared his throat. "Yes, my father told me you've been running several tests."

Dr. Goodman leaned forward. "We have to admit, this is something rather unusual. We first suspected sleep apnea. A person with apnea will stop breathing, sometimes many times during the course of a night. It is most often related to a closing off of the windpipe, or a relaxing of the soft part of the throat, that blocks air flow. Considering the trauma that he suffered to his neck, we thought at first there was some swelling or injury there that might be causing a constriction of the throat. We have done extensive testing, however, that appears to rule that out. We don't see any excessive internal damage to his throat, other than some irritation from the respirator tube. Charlie is experiencing episodes where he stops breathing, but they are not actually happening while he is asleep, they are occurring just as he drops off to sleep, which is also not generally consistent with apnea. We have looked at a number of other things, including potential brain stem trauma or abnormalities, reactions to the sedatives, pulmonary trauma, and many other possible causes. In short, we have found no physiological reason for what is occurring."

Alan frowned, impatiently. "I thought you said you had a theory."

Dr. Goodman nodded soberly. "We do. We think the cause of this is psychological." He glanced at Dr. Michaels, who picked up the conversation.

Michaels looked at Alan and Don, and spoke softly. "We understand from the reports what Charlie went through. We think that the mental trauma that he experienced has caused him to train himself to awaken when he feels himself dropping off to sleep. He has basically conditioned his subconscious mind to react spontaneously, and is reliving the experience he went through each time he reaches the transition between sleep and waking. He in essence has lost his ability to put himself to sleep."

Don felt his heart constrict painfully, and he glanced at Alan, who looked anxious and confused.

Dr. Goodman continued. "Most people assume that falling asleep is instinctive, and there are elements to it that are instinctive. However, part of it is learned. We ordinarily learn how to allow ourselves to drop into sleep as babies. Of course, many things can interfere with that, as insomniacs know well. Charlie's case, however, is extreme. The fact that he keeps pulling himself awake, in spite of his illness, exhaustion, and the pain medication he is on, well," he paused, looking for words.

Dr. Michaels continued the thought. "It is an indication of severe underlying emotional trauma. It has obviously gone beyond his ability to overcome his responses. Until we can get him to deal with the psychological ramifications of this, we will need to help him get over the sleep-wake transition."

Alan looked desperately from Michaels to Goodman. "How do we do that?"

Goodman spoke. "We should be able to achieve it through sedation. We believe that once he is through that transition point, he will be able to stay asleep. There is some risk to that – if we are wrong, and there is some physical component to this, the sedation could magnify the breathing problem. When we administer the sedative, we will be prepared to put him back on the respirator if it becomes necessary. For that we would like your approval."

Alan hesitated, looking at Don. He couldn't bear the thought of having to put Charlie back on the respirator.

Dr. Greene spoke up for the first time. "I believe we need to try this, and soon. The body needs sleep to conduct repair processes. Charlie is physically exhausted from trying to fight this. His temperature is beginning to rise again; he cannot afford a relapse."

"Dad, we need to at least try it," said Don softly.

Alan closed his eyes and nodded wearily. "All right."

Dr. Goodman nodded. "We intend to administer a dosage schedule that will keep him out until morning. If you like, you can go in and see him before we put him under."

Alan nodded, and they rose. They thanked the doctors, and as they turned, Don noticed that Dr. Michaels was watching him. He felt a twinge of discomfort that quickly turned into irritation, and he looked back directly, coolly, until Michaels glanced away.

A moment later, they were at the entrance to Charlie's room. Alan hesitated at the door then looked at Don, raw pain on his face. "I don't think I can do this again, Donnie. Go ahead, I'll wait." Don stopped short, dismayed by the admission and the look on his father's face. His sense of guilt deepened. _I let him go through this alone today. Him and Charlie both._ Turning, he stepped into the room.

He should have been prepared, been warned by his father's reaction, but the sight of his brother struck his very soul. Charlie's eyes were drooping, the pupils struggling to focus. He looked pale and exhausted, and he was breathing heavily. Don leaned over him gently, and he saw Charlie's eyes shift toward him with an effort, and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly.

"S'Don," he whispered weakly.

"Yeah, Charlie, it's me," said Don, his voice thick with emotion. Charlie's eyes drifted back and forth, struggling to stay focused on his brother. His eyelids threatened to droop shut with each breath. "How are you doing, buddy?"

"S'tired," whispered Charlie, his eyes closing. A single tear escaped, rolling down Charlie's cheek, and Don choked back a sob. Charlie's head nodded; he relaxed momentarily, then suddenly his mouth opened, and his face contorted. Don's heart twisted in panic as he saw Charlie trying vainly to bring in air, but just as suddenly, his brother's eyes flew open, and he gasped, breathing again, chest heaving.

_Dear God, _thought Don, stricken, _He's been doing this all day?_ He watched in despair as the cycle repeated, only dimly aware as medical personnel filed into the room behind him. "We need you to step out, sir," he heard, and he backed away slowly from Charlie's bed. Turning in a daze, he stepped through the doorway. He saw his father's figure, slumped in fatigue down by the exit to the ICU. That suddenly seemed too far to walk, and Don leaned against the wall, his head resting against his arm, as an abrupt, painful flood of tears erupted.

"Charlie, he whispered, "What have they done to you?"

-----------------------End Chapter 19---------------------------------------------------


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Don and Alan pushed through the ICU door into the waiting area, pain and stress apparent on their faces. Their friends watched them approach with sympathy tinged with fear, no one speaking as Don and Alan took seats. Don looked at his father. "Do you want me to explain this?"

Alan sighed tiredly. "Go ahead."

Don proceeded to summarize their conversations with the doctors, as best he could, ending with their theory that the problem was psychological, and their decision to try sedation. The group sat quietly for a moment, each of them feeling the horror of what Charlie must have gone through. Tears had started again in Amita's eyes; she had cried enough for a lifetime in the past week, she thought. She needed so badly to see him; it seemed that one thing after another was keeping her from his side. She only half-stifled a sob of sadness and frustration, and got up and walked to the windows. Megan got up quietly, and went over to stand by her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

The group was still waiting quietly a half hour later, when Dr. Welsh emerged and strode over to them. She sank into a chair near Don and Alan with a smile on her face. "We have good news. We administered the sedative, and Charlie is now asleep and breathing on his own. He fought it going under, but once he was out, he began breathing normally, and has been for the last thirty minutes."

Alan sighed with relief. "So the respirator won't be needed?"

"Not that we foresee. We are monitoring both his respirations and blood oxygen, and both of those systems are tied to an alert in case they go below normal levels, but we don't expect any issues. Charlie should be able to get some much-needed rest tonight, and I suggest that all of you do the same. If you want to be with him when he is awakened, be here a little before 8:00 a.m."

She rose, and Alan rose with her, clasping her hand warmly. "Thank you."

The group began taking their leave, and finally Alan and Don were left alone. Don eyed his father. "What are you thinking?"

Alan sighed. "That I should probably go home tonight. I hate to leave him." He looked at his eldest. Don's face was weary and grim, and there was a look in his eye that Alan couldn't quite place, and wasn't sure that he liked. _'I was pretty hard on him today,'_ thought Alan. _'I just can't understand either of them sometimes. They both deal with things by hiding in their work – and that is no way to handle anything." _

"Come on," said Don. "I'll walk down with you." He was still feeling the mixture of hurt and chagrin from earlier that day, and was not quite sure where he stood with his father, but Alan looked tired, and Don felt like he should offer support. What he really wanted was to be comfortable with his father again, to know that they were okay, but the ride down on the elevator in silence was anything but comfortable.

Outside, they paused on the sidewalk. _'I should ask him to come to the house,'_ thought Alan, _'but if he wants to go to work in the morning it might cramp his style.' _

Don glanced at his father. '_I wouldn't mind going to the house tonight. He could probably use the company. And so could I_,' he thought ruefully.

"Well," said Alan, "were you planning on coming back in the morning?"

Don cringed inwardly. _'What was that supposed to mean?'_ "Yeah," he said, thinking he was being dismissed. "I guess I'll meet you here."

"Right," said Alan, disappointed. _'He wants to go to his own place.' "_Drive carefully."

They turned and headed toward their vehicles, each of them alone with their unpleasant thoughts.

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Charlie drifted awake, then opened his eyes with a start, confused by the unfamiliar room. Something in the back of his mind told him he shouldn't be sleeping, but he wasn't sure why. He pulled his senses together with difficulty, fighting the remnants of the sedative. Slowly things came to him – he was in a hospital room, and his shoulder hurt like hell. He thought hard, frowning as he concentrated, and dimly remembered being here, and thought that maybe his father had been here, maybe Don too? Where was everyone? How did he get here? He closed his eyes briefly; the sedative still called to him, and he began to drift off. He awoke again with a gasp, feeling like he couldn't breathe, and struggled to awaken. '_Definitely shouldn't sleep_,' he thought.

Groggily, he looked up as a gray-haired fireplug of a nurse bustled into the room. "Good morning, Dr. Eppes." Her manner was curt, but her hands were gentle as she set a tray by his bedside and adjusted his blankets. "I brought you a few ice chips. I'm afraid you can't have anything else; you're scheduled for surgery later."

Charlie tried to ask, "Where am I?" but instead emitted something between a croak and hiss.

"Here," she said, holding the cup to his lips, "Try an ice chip." He took it, and closed his eyes as the cool liquid ran down his irritated throat.

"Thank you." He got words out that time, they came out as a weak rasp, but they were words. He could talk. "Where am I?"

She eyed him sharply. "You're at Huntington." She paused at his look of confusion. "You don't remember what happened?"

Charlie shook his head, frowning, trying to push through the fog. There was something, something with Don?

The nurse trotted over to his IV. "I have some pain medication here. This will probably make you a bit sleepy."

Charlie's head jerked up. "No!"

She stopped, looking at him incredulously. "No, what?"

"If it makes me tired, I don't want it," he said weakly, breathing heavily. Speech was such an effort. He suddenly felt claustrophobic lying on his back, and struggled to push himself up, grimacing with pain.

"Hold on," said the nurse. She punched the control on the bed, raising the head, and helped pull Charlie up. He groaned involuntarily as his side and his shoulder protested, and lay back panting, covered in a sheen of sweat. The nurse eyed him dubiously. "You will regret not taking that pain medication," she warned. "I intend to the let the doctor know that you refused it."

"I'm okay," gasped Charlie, adding to himself, _'at least as long as I don't move.'_ The nurse moved back around to him, holding something blue. "Hospital gown," she said. "Now that you're awake, you might want this." Charlie, just then realizing he wasn't clothed, pulled the sheets up around him with a blush. She snapped the garment on, taking care with his injured shoulder, leaving it for Charlie to arrange. Draping a control with a buzzer over the rail of his bed, she bustled out, shaking her head.

Charlie lay still, waiting for the pain to recede and his breathing to calm. He took inventory while he did, noting the IV, the chest tube, and the sling on his left arm. He could feel something on his neck, and he gingerly explored the bandages there with his good hand. _'What happened to me?'_ He felt a growing sense of uneasiness. _'Where are Don and Dad?'_

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Don and Alan took the stairs two at a time. They had both gotten tied up in the same traffic jam, and arrived at the hospital at the same time. Alan was frantic at the thought that Charlie would wake up without one of them there. Don made it up the stairs ahead of his father, but stopped and opened the door for him, and they rushed across the waiting area. Pushing through the door to the ICU, Alan burst into Charlie's room, and stopped so suddenly that Don almost ran into the back of him. Sitting there, looking at him somberly, was his youngest. The sight was such an immense difference from the day before that Alan was momentarily taken aback, and even more flabbergasted when Charlie spoke.

"Where were you guys?" The voice was a little hoarse, but the words were clear, and when Alan looked into his son's eyes, he saw clarity, not confusion.

"Charlie, I'm so sorry," said Alan, crossing to him quickly. "We got tied up in traffic. There was an accident." Charlie looked past him at Don, feeling relief that both of them seemed okay. Don looked troubled, though, and Charlie wondered why. He watched him approach his bedside, slowly, and then looked at his father, who was looking at him closely.

"What?" said Charlie defensively to his father. Alan looked at Don, who spoke for the first time.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired," Charlie admitted weakly. "My side and my shoulder hurt." He frowned, looking at their faces. "What happened? Was I in an accident?"

"You don't remember?" asked Alan slowly.

"Would I ask if I remembered?" said Charlie crossly. He looked at their expressions, thinking suddenly that perhaps he didn't want to know.

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Forty minutes later, he was sitting across from Dr. Michaels. He was tired, his shoulder was aching fiercely, and he was in no mood to discuss what he didn't know with a psychiatrist. It would have been much easier if someone just told him what happened. His father and Don had left the room – he could see them talking with a woman doctor with short blonde hair out in the hallway. He glanced back at Dr. Michaels, disconcerted to find him staring. Charlie stared back, trying to read his expression, but the man was completely impassive. He spoke suddenly.

"Charlie, tell me the last thing you remember."

Charlie closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. "I think – dinner at my house with my dad and Don – on Sunday." He opened his eyes suddenly. "What day is it?"

Dr. Michaels ignored his question. "What else did you do Sunday?"

Charlie frowned. "I was working on something – something for Don." His face brightened. "I was mapping flows for a money laundering scheme." He closed his eyes again, thinking, unaware that his father and brother had finished their conversation in the hall and were standing at the doorway, listening.

"I ended up working on them into the night. I don't think I did anything else that day." He opened his eyes again, thinking.

"Okay," said Michaels. "So you get up Monday morning. What do you do?" At the doorway Don tensed, his eyes glued to Charlie.

Charlie spoke, staring pensively at the blanket on his bed. "I guess I went into school-" He broke off and recognition dawned on his face. "No, I went in to Don's office first – I was going to talk to Don about the money laundering. I stopped in the conference room." He made a rueful face. "I busted up his meeting – he was pretty mad." Alan glanced sideways at Don and saw him wince.

"Then what?" asked Michaels quietly.

Charlie stared at the blanket again, a little sadly. "I packed up my things and left –," He stopped talking, and a dazed expression came over his face. Don and Alan started towards him, but Michaels held up his hand. Charlie paled, and started to shake, still staring at his blanket, a look of horror spreading across his features. "Oh my God," he whispered; then closed his eyes, continuing to shake, his breathing accelerating. "Oh – Oh, God." He gasped for air, and opened his eyes, looking straight at Don and Alan. The complete and utter terror in them twisted in Alan's heart like a knife, and he could bear it no more. He rushed to Charlie's side and took his son in his arms, and held him as he shook, his face convulsed with pain.

Dr. Michaels sat silently for a moment, observing Alan and Charlie. This would be a tough case, he was sure. The torture that the young man had experienced would rock anyone, and he gathered from his short talk with Charlie that he was more sensitive than most. He had done a little research on his subject on the computer; the fact that he was a genius could add complexity to this – many geniuses were, if he were to put it politely, a little more quirky, a little less balanced than the rest of the population. The fact that Charlie remembered what had happened and was responding with appropriate emotions was good, but Michaels had no doubt that there was a long road ahead for him.

He watched as Charlie struggled for control, trying to hold back tears. _'Appropriate emotional response, but subject has trouble expressing it. Good family support from father,' _Michaels jotted in his notes. How about the brother? His glance at Don left him staring – he had rarely seen fury that virulent, that cold on anyone's face before.

Charlie's description of the moments before his encounter with Tatum had catapulted Don's mind back to the start of the events. He lived through them again as he watched the terror surface on Charlie's face, and his hatred of Tatum rose like black mist, clouding his thoughts. _I can't take this anymore, _he thought, his insides writhing. _I have to do something._ He glanced at Dr. Michaels, who was staring at him frowning. Glowering back, he turned on his heel and left the room.

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Megan and Colby were back at work on the case when Don walked in and sat down heavily at his desk, propped his head on his hand, and began leafing through paperwork.

"Hey," said Megan, "look who's here. David will be in later," she told Don, "He's at his psychiatric evaluation. Colby and I already had ours." She frowned when Don didn't respond, and looked closer. Was he shaking?

Fearing bad news, she asked, "How's Charlie?" Colby looked up quickly at the question.

Don sighed and sat back, but kept looking at his desk as he spoke. He felt just on the edge of control – he needed to hold on to it. "He woke up this morning. He seemed pretty good, for a while – he was talking – he just seemed a lot more alert."

'_But-,' _thought Megan. "So that's good, right?"

Don shut his eyes for a moment. "He didn't remember anything at first. The psychiatrist told us we couldn't tell him anything, that it was better if he remembered it for himself." He opened his eyes, and Megan could see the pain and fury mirrored there. "Well, he did. He remembers it all right." He sat up abruptly and asked, "What do we have? Anything new?"

Megan glanced at Colby apprehensively. "We have Lori Jeffers coming again this morning. Colby and I are going to talk to her to see if we can get more on her brother."

"Good. What time?"

"Actually, in about 15 minutes."

"All right, I'll watch."

Megan sighed in relief. She had been afraid that Don was going to pre-empt one of them and take their place in the interrogation room. He was in no condition to be doing that right now.

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After Don left, Charlie had progressed into a full blown panic attack, and it took both Dr. Michaels and Alan to get him to regain some semblance of control. At one point, Michaels feared he was going to have to sedate him, but Charlie eventually calmed down. He sat now, staring at his blankets, expressionless. Emotion swam just behind his dark eyes, but he kept it in check. Michaels wondered what the effort was costing him. He had asked Alan to leave, and tried to continue his conversation with Charlie, but was getting nowhere. Charlie was refusing to respond to most of his questions, giving monosyllabic answers at best. He looked exhausted, and Michaels decided to end the discussion, but not the observation.

"All right, Dr. Eppes, I believe we're done for now." Michaels rose. "You need to get some rest before your surgery. I believe Dr. Welsh is going to come in and explain it to you." He glanced up as Dr. Welsh entered, followed by Alan. They must have been waiting in the hall. "Speak of the devil." He left, but remained standing just outside the door.

Welsh gave him a sardonic smile as he walked out, pulled up a chair and sat down next to Charlie, motioning for Alan to sit with them.

"Dr. Eppes – is it okay if I call you Charlie?" she asked. Charlie nodded dumbly, not bothering to lift his eyes. Alan insides twisted anxiously at the look on Charlie's face.

"Charlie, we need to do a little more surgery this afternoon. Your chest tube needs to come out, and we need to do some repair to the tendons and ligaments in your shoulder."

Charlie picked at his blanket, listlessly. Alan's gut tightened. "Do we really have to do this today?" he asked. "He's been through enough this morning."

Dr. Welsh answered the question, but addressed her response to Charlie. "Yes, I'm afraid so. We have already waited too long for his shoulder – if we don't get it repaired and start him on physical therapy, he will lose function." Her tone lightened and she spoke like she would to a child, trying to get Charlie to respond. "You wouldn't want that, now, would you?"

"Don't patronize me," said Charlie dully, eyes still on his bed.

"Right, sorry," she said, taken aback. She changed her tone and spoke briskly. "What I want for you to do now is to get some rest. We will be back to prep you for surgery around two. After surgery we are going to move you into a regular room. I think you'll be more comfortable there." She waited for a response, but getting none, rose to her feet. "Mr. Eppes, you can have a moment, but then we will need to let Charlie rest." She walked out, raising her eyebrows at Michaels as she passed him outside the door.

"Charlie,-," began Alan, searching for words. "Charlie, I know this is hard-," he stopped. '_This is hard? This is impossible, horrific, mind-bending…' _Alan thought helplessly.

Charlie leaned his head back and shut his eyes. Alan continued, his voice shaking. "I just want you to know that we are here for you. We'll get through this, all of us."

Charlie felt a stab of hurt at the words. '_Don't say 'we,' Dad. You are here. There is no 'we'.' _He sighed and said quietly, without opening his eyes, "I know, Dad." '_It doesn't matter anyway,' _he thought. _'What can they do?'_

Alan rose, and spoke softly through his despair. "I'll see you later, son." He left the room, scarcely acknowledging Dr. Michaels at the door.

Michaels watched quietly as Charlie shifted and sighed tiredly, then as his head nodded, dropping sideways on his pillow. His breathing became more regular and his jaw dropped slightly. Suddenly, his face contorted, his eyes still shut, and he opened his mouth, as he tried vainly to pull in air. He jerked awake, his eyes flying open, and gasped for breath. Michaels sighed deeply and shook his head, settling against the door jamb to wait.

-------------------------- End Chapter 20-------------------------------------------------------


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Lori Jeffers had shown up with her lawyer and an attitude. Megan and Colby were in the interrogation room with her, and Don watched from the observation room. Jeffers sat, her arms crossed stubbornly and her eyes suspicious, but Don could see a subtle difference in her from the last time she had been there. She seemed to be fraying at the edges slightly, a hint of fear in her manner.

"Things have changed since we talked to you last," Megan was saying. "Your brother was facing assault and kidnapping charges, and you were facing charges as an accomplice to that. The stakes are higher now. We are talking at minimum attempted murder." She knew she was stretching this a bit, but she could see the fear in Jeffers' face.

"Of whom?" demanded the lawyer snootily. He was a small thin man with a permanent sneer, greasy hair and a bad suit. Colby eyed him with distaste.

"Of Dr. Charles Eppes," replied Megan.

The lawyer sneered. He had been reading the case briefs, and he knew what had happened in Oregon. "Miss Jeffers' brother was not with the group when that occurred."

"Yeah, but he was part of the plan that facilitated the kidnapping," said Colby. "That makes him an accomplice, and that makes you an accomplice." He pointed at Jeffers.

"Dr. Eppes is in the hospital now fighting for his life from an infection that he sustained from a knife wound to the shoulder. Your brother _was _present when that occurred," Megan went on. She was uncomfortable with what she had to say, knowing that Don was watching. "If he should lose that fight, your brother will be part of the group that will be held responsible for his death." She glanced briefly at the window. _At least Don knows this is a stretch, _she thought. _Charlie _is_ improving._

"That makes _you_ responsible for aiding and abetting," said Colby. "The charges are adding up here." He leaned forward, playing good cop, and spoke softly. "We know you didn't know what you were getting into when you agreed to help him out. I'm sure this is all more than you expected." He was rewarded with a sniff and a slight nod from Jeffers, and went on. "We just need you to tell us where he is. We can tell the DA that you cooperated with the investigation – that will be worth some points. It's not your fault that your brother did what he did – it's his."

Megan jumped in. "He probably doesn't even appreciate what you're doing, does he?" she said sympathetically. Jeffers' face crumpled and she shook her head, hiding her face in her hand.

Her lawyer eyed his client sourly; then turned to Megan. "We would like to talk privately for a moment." Megan nodded, and she and Colby stepped out, just as Don came out of the observation room, and they congregated outside the door.

"She's close," she said, eyeing Don. His face was impassive, but his eyes were hard.

"If that sleaze bucket wasn't in there with her, she would have caved for sure," said Colby. "Maybe she still will." They turned as the door opened, and Jeffers came out wiping her nose, followed by her lawyer. Megan and Colby stepped aside, but Don stayed put, blocking the aisle.

"My client is going to take some time to consider," said Jeffers' lawyer haughtily. Jeffers looked up at Don uncertainly, waiting for him to move. She took one look at his face, and stood transfixed, paling.

Don held her eyes, his own black. He spoke softly, with repressed fury. "It would be best if you didn't take too long."

The lawyer had turned pale too, but spoke sharply. "Are you threatening my client?"

Don kept his eyes on her face. "Just stating a fact," he said quietly.

Megan glanced behind Don. Merrick had come up behind him and was observing the interaction with a frown. "Don," she said softly. Don stood for a moment longer, his eyes boring into Jeffers'; then stepped aside. The lawyer ushered her out with an affronted look.

Merrick spoke from behind. "Agent Eppes, can I talk to you for a moment?" He walked into the conference room. Don walked in behind him, his face a mask.

Merrick examined Don silently for a moment. "Have you gone for your psychiatric exam?"

"Not yet," replied Don evenly.

"You should not be interacting with suspects, then," said Merrick. "You know that."

"It was a chance encounter. I wasn't in the interrogation room."

"I don't need my agents making veiled threats; I don't care what the circumstances are. I want you to get that evaluation done today, or I'm pulling you off this case." Merrick headed for the door, and paused. "Is that understood?"

Don turned, expressionless, eyes hooded. "Understood." Merrick held his gaze for a moment, then turned and headed out through the bullpen.

Megan and Colby had returned to their desks, and Megan watched Don sit down at his own, face still void of emotion, not meeting their gaze. She looked at Colby and he shrugged, his eyebrows raised. She looked back at Don, who had picked up the phone. _'Good, he's calling for his evaluation,'_ she thought with relief, as she heard him speak. Her attention was diverted back to Colby, who had picked up his own phone.

"Yeah, okay," he was saying. Don hung up his phone and listened. "How are you getting him down here? Okay. Nice work."

Colby hung up and turned excitedly. "That was the border guard. They caught one of them trying to cross into Canada. They'll have him down here by tonight." He grinned at Don.

'_Yes! Finally a break,'_ thought Megan. She turned back to Don with a grin of her own, which faltered when she saw his face, and saw the complete lack of expression.

"Good," was all he said, his face unreadable as he turned back to the papers on his desk. He stared at them, unseeing. The black anger still roiled in his gut, constantly threatening to spill over. He could not let a hint of it show if he was going to get through his evaluation. He needed to keep control, to fight it down. He took a deep breath, and tried to focus.

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Charlie felt panic rising. He couldn't breathe; the noose was around his neck again; he had thought it was gone; why was it back? He began to struggle as his need for air grew, his eyes flew open - suddenly the noose evaporated, and he was in the hospital room again, gasping for air. His insides twisted in fear as he realized that he had done it yet again – had drifted off, only to encounter a recurring nightmare. _'I'm losing it,'_ he thought, panicked. _'Why won't this go away?'_

He took a deep breath, shaking. _This was forty-one_, he thought with fear. _Forty-one times in – how long?_ There was no clock in the room – he had no way of telling how long he was out each time. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes against a rising tide of dread. The events of the last week lurked in the back of his mind, constantly threatening to spill into his conscious thought and overwhelm him, and he pushed them back hard. _Can't think about it, I need to stay in control. _The memory of his panic attack was still fresh, the raw horror simmering under the surface. He couldn't go through a repeat of that, not now. He had a horrible suspicion that he might not come out of it if it happened again.

He heard a soft sound next to him, and his eyes flew open to find his father standing by the bedside. "Dad."

"Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry," said his father. "I thought you were sleeping." He looked tired, disappointed.

"No, I'm – I'm having kind of a hard time with that," Charlie said softly. Tears threatened, and he closed his eyes. _Can't do that – no emotions – I'll lose it completely._ His face contorted with the effort to stay calm, then relaxed into a blank mask, and he opened his eyes. He looked past Alan at the doorway. "Where's Don? Still at work?"

"Yes," said Alan reluctantly. He saw a look of something – sadness, defeat – flash through his youngest son's eyes before they closed again.

Charlie fought back against the feeling of disappointment. Don had left in the middle of his panic attack. _I freaked him out,_ Charlie thought bitterly. _I couldn't handle myself, and he's ashamed of me._ He swallowed hard. "What time is it?"

"Time for a talk," said Dr. Michaels from the doorway, before Alan could respond. "No, stay," he said, as Alan rose.

Michaels pulled up a chair, and Charlie groaned inwardly. The man's probing questions earlier had threatened to undo him. It was all he could do to fend them off, and he wasn't sure he had the strength to go through it again. "I'm really tired right now. Can we do this later?"

"That's exactly what I want to talk about," said Dr. Michaels. "You may be tired, but there isn't much you can do about it, is there?"

Charlie's jaw worked, and he looked away.

"I want to teach you a couple of techniques to help you fall asleep. It's basically a form of self-hypnosis." Charlie rolled his eyes impatiently, refusing to look at Michaels.

"Come on now, Dr. Eppes. Surely your Cognitive Emergence theories take into account the workings of the mind in the subconscious state." Charlie glanced at him suspiciously, but Michaels had his attention.

"Don't tell me you don't believe in hypnosis. If it makes you feel any better, call it subconscious suggestion." Without waiting for a response, Dr. Michaels launched into a description of the process, which included counting, breathing, and visualization techniques. It was deceptively simple, and Charlie's skepticism increased as he listened.

"You have an hour and a half before your surgery," continued Michaels. "I'm giving you an assignment – I want you to try this while you wait. Don't be surprised if it doesn't work right off the bat – it takes practice to get into the right frame of mind." He paused and waited expectantly. Charlie scowled at his blanket.

"It won't hurt to try it, son," said Alan softly. He looked at Charlie hopefully, and Charlie sighed.

"All right, I'll try it," he agreed reluctantly.

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Dr. Brighton made a pretense of examining his notes, casting a sideways glance at the agent he had just evaluated. He had heard of Agent Eppes and was aware of his reputation, but had not met him before the exam. Eppes' description of the events and responses to his questions were in line with what he had heard from the other agents, and he exhibited icy self control throughout the exam. Still Dr. Brighton was uneasy. The man's brother was involved, after all, and there was something about his behavior that struck him as rehearsed. He couldn't put his finger on anything definite, however; and he certainly couldn't fault the man for lack of control, or for inappropriate responses. Sighing, he finished his overall comments, and signed the release. "Okay, Agent Eppes, you're cleared. I'll file the report – you're good to go."

Don stepped out into the hallway, his heart pounding, and sighed with relief. He had just given the performance of his life. His self control had been stretched to the limit during the discussion. He felt a little guilty, a bit deceptive, but he pushed it aside. The ends justified the means, he reasoned. There was no way he was going to be kept off this case.

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Alan sat in the waiting area, his head in his hands. The events of the past few days were catching up with him, and he was exhausted, tired of waiting, tired of seeing his son in pain, tired of worrying about the mental state of both of his boys. He had come in to see Charlie before his surgery, only to find him on the verge of despair. He apparently had no luck with the self-hypnosis techniques, and although Dr. Michaels encouraged him, the experience had obviously undermined his self-confidence even further. Charlie was pale and withdrawn, and when the time came to administer the sedative, he panicked at the thought of going under, and they had to restrain him while they put him out. The sight of them holding him, the terror in his eyes, and his pleas for them stop had been more than Alan could bear, and he stumbled to the waiting area in a fog of grief. Adding to all of it, he hadn't heard from Don all day, and worry for his eldest percolated under the rest of the emotions.

His eyes were closed, so he didn't realize the subject of his thoughts was standing there until he spoke.

"How is he?" Don asked quietly.

Alan's head jerked up, and he tried to compose himself. "He's in surgery. Where were you?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice.

"Just had my psych evaluation."

"Oh," said Alan, feeling a little guilty. "How did it go?"

"Okay. I got released." Don's voice was noncommittal, and he looked at his shoes. He glanced back up at his father. "Did he calm down after I left?"

Alan sighed. "Yeah, but he's struggling. Physically he seems better, but emotionally-," he paused, searching for words. "He spent some time with Dr. Michaels, but so far it's not helping him a lot. The doctor tried to give him some relaxation techniques to try to teach him how to put himself to sleep, but I don't think they're working very well. The doctor said to give it time, to keep trying, but it's going to take him a while." He stopped and looked at Don. "I think it will do him good to see you. They should be done pretty soon." His son nodded, and silence fell. Alan looked at him with concern. _He looks so detached. And this conversation seems so difficult. What is happening to him?_

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Me? Yeah, sure," said Don. His voice was casual, but he avoided Alan's eyes. They both looked up with relief as Dr. Welsh approached.

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Don had to steel himself to enter Charlie's room. At work, he could push out the visions of his battered brother, he could bury the memory of the pain and terror in his eyes; he could stifle the worry. When confronted with it face to face, it was almost unbearable. His brother did look better physically, but he had withdrawn into a quiet, almost non-communicative shell. The only clue to what was inside were his eyes: dark, quiet, filled with pain. It reminded him uncomfortably of how Charlie had reacted when their mother died; how he had retreated into a world of his own. Don could feel pain and rage rising in him again, and when Amita and Larry had shown up, anxious to finally get to see Charlie, he grabbed the excuse and beat a hasty retreat, hating himself for leaving so quickly, hating the wounded look he saw in his brother's eyes as he left, and hating, raging against the man that had put them in this situation.

When he looked back on it later, he realized he should have known better than to go back into the office at that point. In his current state of mind, the case was like a flame to a moth; the desire to find Tatum consumed him.

He returned to find his group preparing for interrogation of the man they had captured at the border. His name was William Sykes, and he was known as Willy. He had shaved off his mustache, but group recognized him immediately as the one captor without a beard. Sykes already sat in the interrogation room, and mere sight of him incited fury in Don. With a huge effort he controlled himself, and listened as his team briefed him on the details of Sykes' capture.

He assigned himself and David to the interrogation, ignoring Megan's uneasy glance. Unaware that Merrick was on his way down, he and David walked into the room and began reading Sykes his rights. Merrick, Megan and Colby slipped into the observation room together. David was sitting across from Sykes, and Don stood against the wall, arms crossed.

"We need some information," David began. "If you cooperate, you can help yourself out. We want to know where the rest of your group is."

Sykes sneered. "Sure, I can cooperate. I don't know." Don scowled, fighting his fury at the man's tone.

"You were all headed across the border. We know Tatum has a place up there. We also know that you were still together when you hit the OK Truck Stop in Washington. What happened at the truck stop?"

Sykes sat back, insolently. "Tatum and one of the guys got in a little argument."

"Did Tatum shoot him?"

"You'll have to ask him that. I was getting gas. When I went back to pick them up, he was already dead. The rest of us took off."

Don spoke up, coldly. "You just left him there."

"Look, you think I was going to argue? I didn't want shot. I did as I was told."

Don leaned over the table, eyes boring into Sykes. "So where are the rest of them?"

Sykes snorted derisively. "Hell if I know. We split up the next day. Tatum up and left us in some little dump of a town. We had to hitchhike to the border."

"What was he driving?"

"Silver Tahoe."

"Plates?"

"Don't remember," said Sykes derisively.

Don's jaw twitched. "How'd you get the vehicle?"

"Don't remember," sneered Sykes.

His face black, Don reached forward and grabbed him by the shirt. "You'd better think hard, asshole."

"I'm done talkin'," Sykes snapped, trying to pull out of Don's grip. "I want a lawyer."

Don's face was a picture of rage. David, concerned, stood up and pushed him back gently. "Don, back off." Don relinquished his grip slowly, breathing heavily, his eyes still on Sykes' face.

David pulled on Don's arm gently, and he turned, shoulders sagging. They made it as far as the door, when Sykes, sensing victory, gave a parting shot, "How's your little puke of a brother, fed?"

Later, Don would try to recall what happened without success. When the mist of rage cleared, Sykes was on the floor, bleeding, and Colby and David had his arms, wrestling him out of the room. Merrick was shouting, and he heard the words "off the case" and "on leave, effective now!" Stumbling to his desk, he lay down his gun, threw down his badge, and fled the room, rage and pain still scrambling his thoughts. He heard voices behind him; they were still behind him when he reached the parking lot, but he had a jump on them, and the advantage of speed generated by adrenaline. By the time they reached him, he was in his SUV, flying out of the parking lot, tires screeching, into the LA dusk.

-----------------------------End Chapter 21------------------------------------------


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

It was the longest week of Alan's life. It even surpassed the week that Margaret died – the grief then was horrible, but it was inevitable, known; there was no guessing, no wondering about what was happening or going to happen. He didn't realize that Don was gone until late that evening, when Megan finally showed up at the hospital looking for him, and even then they all figured it was temporary, that he had holed up in a bar somewhere to lick his wounds. When he didn't show up or communicate with anyone the next day, the team started looking for him, digging for credit card or ATM hits. They found that he had taken out a fair amount of cash late the prior evening from his ATM account, and after that the trail went cold.

Charlie seemed tired and withdrawn after his surgery that evening, and his responses to his visitors was limited and subdued. Don hadn't stayed long, Alan noted with disappointment, and Larry and Amita, although they came in excited to see Charlie, left quietly, with disturbed looks on their faces. The one ray of hope Alan had that night was the fact that Charlie didn't panic when they came to give him his sedative for the evening – at least not outwardly. Alan could see the fear in his eyes as it started to take effect, and he was talking to himself, which concerned Alan, until he realized that Charlie was trying the self-hypnosis techniques that Dr. Michaels had given him. Charlie did stop breathing for just a moment as he went out, but instead of waking in a panic, his eyes remained closed and he relaxed, and started breathing again. So did Alan, watching him. It went downhill from there.

It was now four days later. Don was still gone; although his team had figured out that he was somewhere in Washington, based on another hit on an ATM machine. Alan did not have the heart to tell Charlie that Don had left until two days after he'd gone, and he only did then to help Charlie understand why Don wasn't coming to see him. That hadn't helped, he realized at once – upon hearing the news, Charlie grew pale and even more quiet, and began to withdraw even further.

Don had called Megan once, and had called Alan yesterday, asking about Charlie, but Alan couldn't keep him on the phone for more than a moment or two. Although it was something of a relief to hear his voice yesterday, and he sounded relatively normal, Alan was sick with worry.

He had brought Charlie home from the hospital yesterday. He was still extremely weak, and could only manage a few steps without exhaustion. Alan had rented a hospital bed and set it up in the living room so Charlie wouldn't have to deal with stairs any more than he had to. He was on multiple medications – antibiotics, anti-depressants, prescription sleeping pills for evening; Alan was finding it difficult to keep track of them all. At Dr. Michael's insistence, they had set up daily appointments for Charlie. It was Dr. Michaels that Alan was speaking to at the moment.

"He's refusing to go," Alan said quietly into the receiver. He looked at Charlie, who was sitting on his bed, eyes dark and obstinate. His T-shirt was hanging off his thin frame; it somehow made him look younger, and that and the stubborn expression reminded Alan suddenly of Charlie as a teenager. "No, he didn't eat much better yesterday. He ate a little lunch, and I'm afraid I pushed him a little more than he was ready for at dinner, and he ended up losing it. Yeah, he got to sleep okay last night – he needed two sleeping pills, but he did it. Yes, he used the hypnosis techniques. No, he doesn't want to go. He says he doesn't see the point. I think he needs to, but I can't make him." He listened for a moment; then sighed with relief. "Really? I don't want to put you out – no, that's great. Thank you."

Alan hung up and walked into the living room, and stood quietly for a moment regarding his son. He knew that Charlie knew he was standing there, but Charlie didn't acknowledge him. He sat silent and brooding, picking absently at the leg of his sweatpants with his right hand, left arm resting loosely in a sling.

"Dr. Michaels is going to come to the house to see you," said Alan.

Charlie rolled his eyes. He hated those sessions. He had insulated himself from the horrible memories and the pain of Don's absence with a mental wall, and it seemed that Michaels was intent on bringing it down. As much as Charlie pushed away from showing emotion, Michaels pushed him towards it. Charlie feared his feelings, feared what would happen if he gave in to them. It was easiest to block them off when he was alone, and awake. It was best to avoid contact with anyone; other people could trigger the emotions he wanted to bury, and Michaels made a concerted effort to drag them up. It took all of Charlie's self control to just make it through a session. Now the man was coming to his own house.

"Maybe I won't let him in," he said sullenly. Alan's memory of a teenage Charlie intensified, and not in a good way.

"Don't be childish, Charlie. What do you want for lunch?" Alan's heart twisted as Charlie just looked away sadly and shook his head. He couldn't begin to fathom what was going on in his youngest son's head, but he knew that Charlie was refusing to deal with it. He was going through the motions, mechanically eating, taking his medications, performing his self-hypnosis at bedtime, but all of it with complete detachment, and a sense of hopelessness. He barely tolerated visitors and hadn't even shown an interest in his math. The one spark of interest he had displayed was when Don had called yesterday evening, but when Don hung up without speaking to him, he retreated again, with just a flash of disappointment in his eyes to indicate that there was any feeling left. In spite of everything Alan or anyone else did to draw him out, the response, or lack of one, was the same, and the longer it continued, the more Alan worried. He couldn't help but think that if anyone could get to Charlie, Don could – Don could always get a response out of him – maybe not always a positive one, but he could spark emotion in Charlie like no one else, except for Margaret. But Don wasn't here, and from all appearances, needed help of his own.

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Megan sighed, and hung up the phone. "Well, I guess Don called Alan last night," she said. Colby and David looked up expectantly.

She shook her head. "It didn't sound like they had much of a conversation. He asked about Charlie; then got off the phone. Alan asked where he was, and all he said was Oregon."

"How's Charlie doing?" asked David.

"I dunno, about the same." She put her face in her hands and spoke through her fingers. "This is so messed up." The others said nothing, their silence a tacit agreement, and Megan's thoughts strayed to her conversation with Don two days earlier.

He had called her cell phone early in the morning of the second day he was gone, catching her before she got to work.

"Megan."

"Don! Where the heck are you?"

Silence for a moment. Then he answered quietly, "Oregon."

Megan answered with her own silence, then stated, rather than asked, "You're looking for him, aren't you?" When he didn't answer, she continued, pleading, "Don, you can't. You can't do this."

"I can't wait for the system anymore, Megan. It takes too long. Merrick pulled me off the case. I can't sit there and do nothing."

"You wouldn't have to do nothing. You could take care of Charlie, you could help your father."

Pause. "How's he doing?"

Megan had no qualms about generating guilt if it would drive her point home. "He's a wreck, Don. He needs you here." Besides, the statement held absolutely true – for either Alan or Charlie.

When Don didn't answer, she asked angrily, "What are going to do if you find him? What do you think it will do to your father, to Charlie, if you end up in jail?"

"What does it matter?" Don returned bitterly. "I'm sure I'm already up on charges for Sykes."

"Actually, no."

"Why not?" He sounded surprised. When Megan paused, he admitted somewhat sheepishly, "I think I kind of blanked out. I remember him saying something about Charlie, and then I don't remember anything after that."

"Neither does Sykes," answered Megan. _That makes this a heck of a lot easier._ "He attacked you on the way out." _That was a true statement, _she thought_. The attack was verbal, but it was an attack. _"You swung back reflexively, and caught him in the nose. He went down and cracked his head on the floor, ended up with a nosebleed and a moderate concussion. We all witnessed it. Not only is he not pressing charges, we're threatening to file one ourselves, if he doesn't cooperate."

She waited while he processed the information, heard his sigh of relief on the other end, and pressed on while she had the advantage. "So you're coming back, right?"

She heard chagrin in his voice. "I can't, Megan. I can't explain it; I have to do this, for Charlie. I promise, if I find Tatum I won't do anything myself – I'll bring in law enforcement."

Megan lashed back at him. "You'd damn well better not do anything yourself. And Don, I want you to think about one thing. Charlie doesn't care about Tatum – he cares about you. Don't kid yourself – you aren't finding Tatum for him, you're doing it for yourself. If you want to do something for him, get your ass back home." She hung up, furious; then paused. '_I can't believe I just said that to my boss.'_

Thinking back on it now, she chided herself. '_I shouldn't have hung up on him. I should have stayed on and kept trying to convince him to come in.'_ Sighing, she looked down at her paperwork, not realizing that she already had.

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Charlie lay down after lunch, and closed his eyes. He had choked down two bites of soup and about a quarter of his sandwich, and told his father he was tired. He _was_ tired.

Mentally tired, tired of fighting it all. Physically tired, because while the sleeping pills put him out, they didn't keep him there. He would wake up three or four hours after taking them, and as hard as he tried to use the hypnosis techniques, nothing short of more drugs would get him to go back out. He refused more pills for two reasons, one he didn't want to get dependent on them; and two, getting up to get them would wake up his father, who had taken to sleeping on the sofa. So he would lay there and stare up into the darkness, fighting the demons that threatened, waiting for morning.

Those times, in the deepest part of the night, were the worst. All of the black thoughts he had while he was in the shed reached out to engulf him, and threatened to swallow him whole. He tried to fight back the first night or two, until he realized that Don had left. Then those ugly fears came for him too, the fear that he was somehow to blame for all this, the fear that his brother was ashamed of him, of his inability to handle this, the fear of losing him. He suspected he wasn't thinking rationally, but he didn't know how to anymore. He could feel, sense; that little by little he was losing this fight, the fight to stay sane, the will to stay alive, but he didn't care. Without his brother, there was no reason to. He had almost lost himself when he lost Mom. He knew he could not survive losing Don too.

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Don had woken from a dead sleep at three that morning. He was in a small hotel in northern Oregon situated on a small lake, outside of some small town, the name of which escaped him. He had been in so many over the last three days, driving endlessly, that they all began to merge together. The first two nights, he didn't even bother to find a hotel. He caught a couple of hours of sleep in the car, and driven by hatred and the adrenaline it generated, continued his search, scanning each sleepy town for a silver Tahoe. The further he drove, the more he realized how impossible the task, how fruitless his search was. Last night, at the brink of exhaustion, he had finally checked into the hotel.

He got up and looked out of the window of the room. A full moon shone on the lake, turning it white and silver, a beautiful scene, and although he didn't consciously register the view, the peace of it began to steal its way into his thoughts. Megan's last words echoed in his mind. '_What am I doing_?' he thought. '_I could go on searching this way for Tatum forever and not find him. This is pointless – it's no solution for anything.'_

A sudden thought occurred to him. '_Searching forever, no solution - My God, this is like trying to solve P vs. nP – I'm turning into Charlie._' He started to laugh in spite of himself, and then the laughter turned hysterical; he was crying and gasping, with tears running down his face. Staggering backwards until his legs hit the bed, he sat down hard, sobbing uncontrollably. When he finally stopped, he sat for a long moment; then stood up and gathered his things. He knew where he needed to be.

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Dr. Michaels sighed, and regarded his patient, sitting quietly across from him on the sofa. It was late afternoon, and they were in the living room. Alan had busied himself out in the kitchen, and in the silence the clink of dishes, the swoosh of water, became startlingly loud. Charlie was looking away from him, his thin shoulders slumped. The pain that was radiating from him was almost palpable, Michaels thought. A shaft of sunlight was hitting Charlie, and tiny particles of dust danced off him like physical manifestations of the pain waves, intensifying the notion. _'I'm losing him,' _Michaels thought. '_He's giving up. I've got to find a way to break that barrier.'_

Michaels' thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and a voice called. "Dad? Charlie?"

Charlie paled, and turned immediately toward Don's voice. He could feel a tide of emotions rising, and he panicked. _'I can't lose it front of him again,' _he thought wildly.

Almost simultaneously came a crash from the kitchen, and Alan rushed out. "Donnie?" Michaels rose politely to his feet, his attention momentarily diverted by Alan embracing Don so hard that they staggered, and almost collapsed together. He glanced back at Charlie, but the sofa was empty, and he turned further in surprise, just catching a glimpse of Charlie disappearing into the kitchen. He hadn't thought that his patient could move so quickly. Alan turned, a broad grin on his face, saying, "Charlie, look who's here-," and stopped short in confusion.

"I think he went out that way," Michaels said, gesturing toward the kitchen, observing the concern on Don's face with interest, as he watched him run toward the back of the house, with Alan right behind, still clutching a dishtowel.

"He must have gone into the garage," he could hear Alan say, as he followed them out. He watched Don pause at the door, and look uncertainly at his father. "Go ahead," said Alan gesturing. "I'll wait here."

Don opened the door. Although he left it open, the streaming sunlight made it impossible to see into the gloom. Michaels moved quietly forward so he could see in, standing next to Alan in the doorway, who was dabbing at his face with the dishtowel. Don sat in the dim garage on an old sofa, murmuring softly, with his arms protectively around Charlie, who was clutching his brother and sobbing without reservation, uncontrollably. For a moment, the sound of Charlie's sobs were the only thing that could be heard, and Dr. Michaels smiled. It was the sound of a barrier starting to break, and it was one of the sweetest things he had ever heard.

-----------------------------End Chapter 22------------------------------------------------------


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Don glanced over at Charlie, who was fiddling with something, slumped in the passenger seat. He turned his eyes back to the highway. "Maybe you should get some rest."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking," answered Charlie. "I am pretty tired."

Don glanced at his brother's face with concern. "Maybe we shouldn't do this."

"Dr. Michaels thought it would be a good idea," said Charlie. "You're going back to work next week, and I start physical therapy on my shoulder. If we don't do it now, I probably never will. Anyway, it's not like I'm doing anything strenuous – I'm just sitting in the car. I can sleep on the way up." He was still fiddling with something, opening and closing it.

Don glanced over, and saw that Charlie was holding a pill box. He pulled out a white pill- Don recognized it as one of his sleeping pills - and held it moment, thinking, then put it back. Sighing, Charlie settled back and closed his eyes. Don could see his lips moving quietly.

"_No pills –just his hypnosis thing,' _thought Don. '_Good for you, Buddy.'_

Quiet descended, but just for a moment. Don glanced over, and his heart constricted when he saw his brother's face contort, and then saw him jerk awake with gasp. Charlie sat for a moment, breathing heavily; then looked at his brother, embarrassed. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I did it without the pills yesterday."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, you don't have anything to be sorry about. It doesn't bother me any," he lied. "Go ahead, try it again."

Charlie sat for several minutes, staring at the oncoming road. Out of the corner of his eye, Don could see Charlie's eyelids start to droop, and then saw him sit back, his lips moving again. After several minutes, Don glanced over. His brother's head was tilted to the side, and he was sound asleep.

Don stole a quick look at him as he drove. He looked so peaceful, asleep. He had managed to put a little bit of weight back on; although he was still painfully thin, and he had a bit of color in his face again. The only visible signs of his ordeal were the sling on his left arm, and the light pink skin on his neck, which was nearly healed. The nightmares still kept him up at night – Don had gone in more than once to calm him down - and Charlie was still quiet and somewhat withdrawn, but the pain was fading from his eyes. Last night, when Larry and Amita were over, Amita leaned over and gave Charlie a kiss on the cheek, and although he didn't quite make it to a smile, the look that they exchanged had Alan grinning like a fool. All in all, Don thought, his little brother had come a long way in the past few days.

So had he, for that matter. He had gone back in for a meeting with Merrick, who insisted on another psychiatric evaluation. Don went in the following day for a four-hour, grueling, painfully honest session with Dr. Brighton, and emerged feeling like he had been through a wringer, but oddly clear-headed. After Brighton and Merrick conferred, he had gotten his badge and his gun back for his efforts, although Merrick insisted that Don take off the rest of that week, plus another, before he came back to work. Don had spent the whole time with his father and Charlie, with the exception of a visit to the dentist to finally get his permanent crown.

He was kept up to date on the case by his team. All of the men had now been found except Tatum. They had tailed Lori Jeffers for several days, and were finally rewarded, following her to the run-down shack of a house that her brother had holed up in. The last man has been caught trying to sneak across the border. It galled Don that Tatum still was out there, unpunished, but he had come to grips with the fact that although it would never be right with him, he had to move on for Charlie's sake.

It was Charlie who suggested that he should make a trip back up to Quartz Mountain to meet the O'Neills and thank the boys. Dr. Michaels had whole-heartedly agreed, and had suggested to Charlie that it might bring him some closure. Dr. Welsh, who had personally seen Charlie for his follow-up visits, wasn't quite sure he was physically ready for it, but when she got their assurances that they would make it a short trip, up and back, and that Charlie would rest in the car, she reluctantly agreed.

Charlie stirred in his sleep, his face drawn in a frown. _The dream was back. In it, he was back in the shed with Tatum. He couldn't move – his arms were stiff, and his feet were planted to the floor. Tatum smiled evilly and lowered the noose over his head. Charlie screamed, but no sound would come, and the noose drew tighter and tighter…_ He jerked awake with a start, glancing quickly to the side to see if Don had noticed.

"Hey Buddy," said Don, eyes on the road, "how about stopping for lunch?"

"S-Sure," Charlie stuttered, "Sounds good." He blinked, trying to clear away the nightmare.

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Tatum was desperate. He had been on the run for the past two weeks, and had finally gone to ground, holed up with the silver Tahoe out of sight. He knew he needed a new vehicle and a different set of papers, and was trying to work his organization to get them. He had made calls to some of the ADU people, but word had already made it through the organization that Tatum had killed one of their own, and of the fact that he ditched his own men in an effort to escape, and no one would respond.

He had dropped off his old friend Johnny, the man who had gotten them the Tahoe, after he slipped away from his men, and now he couldn't raise him – even Johnny wasn't answering his calls. Frantic, he finally got word to his brother in Canada, who was unreliable at best, and was waiting for him to arrange to get him out. The place he was in was the only place he could think of to go, but he knew it was vacant, and he felt reasonably sure no one would look for him there. It was uncomfortable; the water was turned off, except for a well-driven pump, and he dared not use the lights or heat. He had brought food with him, but he was cold and filthy, and filled with rage.

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They were back on the road again. Don had expected Charlie to have no appetite after he woke, pale and hollow-eyed, from his nightmare, and was pleasantly surprised to see his brother manage half of a good-sized plate of food. Charlie actually seemed calmer and more at ease than he had even yesterday, and Don watched him pull out some papers and a pen from the bag at his feet. He set them up on his lap, a little awkwardly because of his sling, and began leafing through them.

"Stuff for school?" asked Don, curiously.

"Yeah. Amita took one of my classes while I was off. I figure the least I can do is grade some papers for her." Charlie looked down at the pile of tests in his lap, thinking. He had spent hours with Dr. Michaels in the past several days. It seems that once he opened up to the doctor, he didn't quite know how to stop, and his thoughts and feelings had poured out of him. It had been cathartic, and he knew it was helping. What he hadn't done was talk much about the recent events with Don. He knew Don had been trying the past few days to keep the conversation light to keep Charlie's mind off what had happened, and he had appreciated the effort, but Charlie had gotten to the point where he was ready to talk, and he wanted to know what his brother had gone through.

He glanced sideways, with a questioning expression, and Don caught his gaze and smiled. Charlie's face relaxed in response, and he looked down at his lap again. The atmosphere in the car was so calm, so relaxed, that Charlie couldn't bear to ruin it with questions that were bound to be painful for both of them. _'It can wait,' _he thought. '_We'll talk later.'_ He turned to his papers, and they sat in comfortable silence as the miles flew past.

They had left early that morning and had made good time. At around 5:00 pm, they were approaching the exit for Quartz Mountain and the O'Neill house, and Charlie's sense of peace was beginning to evaporate. Jenny had been thrilled at their request to come visit, and invited them for dinner that evening. Don dialed her on his cell phone to tell her they were getting close. At the words, Charlie's stomach clutched. He had something else he needed to do, something that Dr. Michaels had suggested, but as they drew closer, he was not entirely sure he could go through with it.

As they pulled onto the dirt road, he clutched the edge of the seat, his heart beating wildly. He could see the cabin come into view; he was transfixed by the sight, and didn't notice Don glance at him with concern in his face. He almost let Don drive past, then clenched his teeth, and said, "Stop."

Don stopped the vehicle, but left it in gear with his foot on the brake, staring at his brother, who looked tense and pale. Thinking maybe Charlie was going to get sick, he asked, "What's the matter?"

Charlie swallowed hard, looking at the cabin and the adjacent sheds. "Dr. Michaels thought that maybe, I mean that if I thought I could,-" he trailed off and looked at Don. "He thinks it would be good for me to go back to the shed."

Don stared, incredulous. Even he didn't want to go back in there. What was Michaels thinking? "Why?" was all he could come up with.

"Well," stammered Charlie, "he says it would help me to see that it's just a shed, that it would maybe help with – you know…"

Don stared at him a moment. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Well, not really," conceded Charlie. He looked at the shed for moment, his stomach churning. "But I think maybe I should."

Don paused for a moment, considering. Whatever Dr. Michaels and Charlie had been doing in their sessions was working; the man did seem to know what he was doing.

"Okay, then," said Don, "but let me pull up a little closer to the buildings."

Charlie watched, heart pounding, as the buildings approached. The first time he had been here, it had been a little later in the evening, and the shadows had been a bit longer, but other than that, the place looked the same, and he was seized with an overwhelming sense of deja-vu. Don pulled the SUV onto the grass near the cabin, and Charlie opened the door and slid quickly out before he could change his mind. Don jumped out too, and looked at Charlie across the hood of the vehicle. His brother looked pale, but resolute. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, I think I need to do this alone." He looked at the buildings. He could see that the shed door was ajar. He decided he would work his way up to it. "I'm going to look at the cabin first. It's probably locked anyway; I'll just look in the windows."

"Okay." Don pulled out his cell phone. "I'm going to call in to the office for a minute. I'll be right here." Dialing, he stepped into a grassy area behind the van and turned his back to give Charlie some privacy.

Charlie walked up two steps onto the cabin porch, his legs shaking. Stepping forward, he tried the door, and was surprised when it opened. He paused for a moment, then flicked on the light and stepped in. It looked the same as he remembered it – the table and chairs, the bunks. Images of Tatum and his men flitted through his mind, but he knew they were long gone, and somehow it defused the apprehension. Slowly his heart lessened its pounding as he looked around, and then he stepped quietly out, turning out the light and shutting the door behind him.

Don was still on his cell phone, and had wandered closer to the SUV as he talked, and Charlie saw him glance his way as he went down the cabin steps. '_That wasn't so bad,'_ Charlie thought to himself. '_I can do this.'_

He walked resolutely past the SUV, picking his way across the uneven ground. An image of being dragged through the night over this ground passed through his head, and he almost stopped in front of the first outbuilding; but he took a deep breath and passed it, stopping outside the door of the second shed. The door was ajar a few inches; it was dark inside, and he could feel the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He glanced uncertainly at Don, who had hung up his phone, and was walking slowly between the cabin and the first shed. '_Nature calls,' _thought Charlie, almost grinning to himself, and the thought broke the ice. Relaxing a bit, he took another deep breath, and pushing the door open, he walked into the shed.

It was dark, and familiar, and terrifying. Fighting a wave of panic, he groped for the string for the overhead light and pulled, but with no results. Suddenly fearful, he stepped back quickly, and bumped into something – someone. His heart catapulted, and he opened his mouth to call for Don, but a large dirty hand clamped over it, and an arm came roughly around his neck. Fetid breath caressed his face, the cold steel of a gun muzzle pushed against his jaw, and his heart contracted painfully at the familiar voice.

"Well, now, Dr. Eppes, this is the last place I would have expected to see you."

-----------------------------End Chapter 23-------------------------------------------


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

The hands grabbed Charlie roughly, pushing him up against the shed wall, and he was facing Tatum. He had shaved his beard, but the shave had degenerated into unkempt stubble; his hair was wild and dirty. The hard blue eyes danced with a light that was truly terrifying – a mixture of rage, madness, and desperation. He leaned into Charlie's chest, pinning him to the wall, with the barrel of the gun at Charlie's neck. "Quiet now," whispered Tatum, "if you make a sound, your brother will come running, and I'll be ready for him."

'_This can't be happening,' _thought Charlie wildly, his heart hammering. The room wavered and spun, and he could hear roaring beginning in his ears. Tatum shook him, and he gasped. _'Need to stay with it,' _he thought desperately. He took a few deep breaths, trying to gain control, and the room slowly righted again. Tatum was leaning sideways, his arm still pinning Charlie to the wall, looking out of the half open door.

He looked back in at Charlie. "Are your keys in your vehicle?"

"I – yes, they are." Charlie really wasn't sure, but the alternative was that Don had them, and he didn't want to give Tatum any reason to go after Don.

"All right, we're going to move toward the vehicle. Do not struggle, do not make a sound, or I will be sure your brother gets it." He pushed Charlie roughly around, wrapping one arm around his neck, and holding the gun to his head with the other. Suddenly they both heard Don's voice calling "Charlie?" and they froze. Tatum peered out the door for a moment, and then pushed Charlie forward. "Move."

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Don had finished his call, and watched Charlie walk toward the shed out of the corner of his eye, his attention caught by a fresh set of vehicle tracks in the grass. He frowned as he followed the line of the track between the house and the shed. '_That's odd,'_ he thought, _'they go back around behind the house.'_ He hadn't been back there, but he could see that trees and brush came up close behind the house, leaving a less than ideal parking space.

Walking carefully between the buildings, Don came around the back corner of the house, coming face to face with a silver Tahoe, pulled under the drooping limbs of a tree. Alarm bells immediately sounded in his head, and he drew his service revolver, creeping up on the vehicle carefully. No one inside. But the vehicle meant that he was somewhere close… Don's heart pounded. He needed to get Charlie out of here. "Charlie?" he called. He heard nothing but his thumping heart. Crouching, he crept along the back of the house toward the second shed. As he reached the gap between the first and second sheds, he swung around the corner, crouching, gun leveled, facing the gap. Nothing. He moved forward across the gap towards the back of the second shed, his eyes glued to the opposite corner.

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Tatum's arm curled around Charlie's neck with an iron grip, nearly cutting off his air. Disregarding Tatum's warning about struggling, Charlie pushed back with his legs, trying to slow them down, but it was futile. Even healthy, Charlie would have been no match for the much larger man; and in his weakened condition, Tatum dragged him like a rag doll. They reached the gap between the first and second sheds, and Tatum froze. Charlie craned his neck, and to his horror could see Don in profile, just a few feet away.

Don was crouching, gun forward, and stepping carefully towards the second shed. It was obvious that he hadn't seen them. Charlie felt the gun muzzle leave his jaw, and simultaneously felt the pressure from Tatum's arm increase on his neck, cutting off all air, and any ability to shout. As if in slow motion, he saw Tatum's arm raise, the gun pointing towards Don.

'_NO!' _The scream resonated in his brain, even if it could not reach his lips. Pushing upwards with his legs, his arms, his whole body with all of his might, he focused on Tatum's extended arm. It was a pitiful effort against the strength of the other man, and for a moment he thought it hadn't been enough, as the gun went off with a deafening report.

Tatum swore as Charlie suddenly jerked and pushed up on his arm, just as he was pulling the trigger. It wasn't a strong push, but it was just enough to bump his arm upward slightly as he shot. Don felt the bullet whiz just over his head, and ducked instinctively, turning at the same time. He saw Tatum and Charlie, and Tatum's gun swiveling to point at his brother, and without conscious thought, charged them, bridging the few feet between the buildings in three bounds, and connecting with a flying leap. He heard a gun go off, and they were down in a tangle of arms and legs, Charlie at the bottom of the pile with Tatum on top of him.

Frantically, Don wrestled Tatum off of his brother. There was so much blood, blood everywhere. Tatum slumped, and Don heaved him aside, his eyes riveted on Charlie. His brother's face was white, and shocked eyes stared back at him. The front of his shirt was covered in blood, and to his horror, Don saw fresh blood blooming on the fabric on the right side of Charlie's chest.

"Charlie!" he gasped. His brother was wearing a button shirt over a T-shirt, and Don yanked at it, buttons flying like bullets, and pulled up the T-shirt frantically. He dabbed at Charlie's bloody chest with the tail of the shirt, and peered at the wound. It looked like a graze, _'God, please let it be a graze!'_ and he dabbed again, probing with his fingers to be sure.

Charlie gasped, finally catching his breath, and Don sagged in relief. The bullet had left a two-inch crease along Charlie's rib cage, but Don could see that there was no entry point. "It's okay, Buddy, it's only a scratch," he said his voice shaking. Charlie struggled to sit up, and Don pulled him into a sitting position, with Charlie's back to Tatum, who lay on the ground, his dirty shirt front stained with blood and perforated with a bullet hole over his rib cage.

Don glanced at Tatum. He could see the exit wound on the other side of his chest – the bullet had torn through one side of Tatum's lower chest to the other – before or after grazing Charlie – Don wasn't sure which. Don turned his gaze on Charlie; his brother's head was swiveled, eyes on Tatum; then Charlie turned back to face Don, shuddering.

Charlie sat shaking, his mind still trying to comprehend the past few minutes. His right side ached fiercely, and the bullet wound stung like fire. In the back of his mind, he realized that Tatum was dead, finally gone, and in spite of the pain, he felt as though a weight had lifted from his chest.

He looked up at Don, and was horrified to see his brother raise his service weapon, pointing at Tatum. For a sickening instant, he thought Don had lost his reason, and was preparing to mutilate a corpse. Then he turned, and immediately rolled sideways as he saw the knife flash downward, and Don's gun went off. It all happened in a split second – he could feel new pain as the knife found his left forearm, and Tatum slumped over him, pinning him down. He turned, writhing frantically under him, and ended up face to face. He was gazing into a pair of staring lifeless blue eyes, so close to his, which seemed to float away oddly as the world started to spin.

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He awoke twenty minutes later, lying on his back. There was a sheriff's vehicle in his line of sight, its lights flashing. He felt hands pressing on his chest, and caught his breath against the pain, lifting his eyes to the stranger that was bending over him. He jerked away, twisting his head, looking for his brother. "Don?"

"Right here, Charlie." His brother materialized at his side, kneeling. "I'm right here." He indicated the other man. "It's okay - this is Deputy Tilden. He's a trained paramedic. Just lie still for a minute."

"Charlie, can you tell me where it hurts?" asked Tilden.

Charlie gathered his thoughts. Where didn't it hurt would be the question. The struggle had made his left rib cage and shoulder sore, but those were old injuries. _Focus on the new stuff_. "My arm," he began.

Tilden gently lifted his left forearm and indicated the gauze wrapped around it. "Here?" Charlie nodded. "Okay, we've got that one accounted for."

"My right side." Charlie lifted his right arm and twisted a little, trying to indicate where it hurt, and grimaced as the pain shot through him.

"Here?" Tilden touched the gauze over the bullet wound. "Yes," hissed Charlie. "And lower down, more toward the side."

"Let me see." Tilden frowned, gently pressing a bruised area on Charlie's rib cage, and Charlie caught his breath sharply. Tilden glanced up at Don. "He may have cracked a rib or two. Doesn't look too bad." He looked back down at Charlie, who still looked pale, trying to reassure him. "We going to run you to the hospital to get you checked out; get a few stitches, and you should be fine."

Don studied Charlie with concern, looking into his eyes for signs of mental trauma. Charlie looked up, brow furrowed. "Tatum," he said haltingly, "is he-,"

Don held his gaze, and something cold passed through his eyes. "He's dead."

Charlie stared for a moment; emotions swirling inside of him, then closed his eyes and sighed. He opened them again and looked at them. "Can you help me up?"

Don frowned, but Tilden said, "You can try sitting. I don't want you moving yet." Charlie grimaced as Tilden and Don gently eased him into a sitting position, but sat steadily enough and looked around him. Don felt the knot in his stomach easing.

A man squatted in front of Charlie and held out his hand. "Charlie, I'm Sheriff Hudson. We've met, but you wouldn't remember it. It's good to see you, son. If I can have just a few more minutes with your brother, I can finish getting his statement, and I won't have to bother you guys anymore."

"That's fine," said Charlie steadily, taking his hand. "Don't you need mine?"

The sheriff exchanged glances with Don. "Well, we technically should, but your brother didn't want to put you through that. I still think, in light of the circumstances, it would be best. I don't want there to be any doubts about this."

Charlie looked up at Don, eyes clear and direct. "Then that's what we should do."

Don eyed Charlie speculatively. "Okay," he said finally, "but we'll do it after we get you checked out."

"Let's get him up," said Tilden.

They helped Charlie carefully to his feet. As he stood, he turned, and saw a man bending over Tatum's body. Tatum was on his back, covered in blood, eyes staring sightlessly upward, reflecting the cold blue of the evening sky. Charlie stared for a moment, and shuddered; then felt Don guiding him towards the SUV.

Tilden and Hudson followed them to the hospital. Before they left, Tilden, pulling Don aside quietly, told him to pull over if he thought that Charlie was showing any signs of shock or distress, and Don was watching him carefully. Charlie sat quietly in the passenger seat, looking at the countryside around him. '_He's never seen this,'_ thought Don. This was Don's third time down this stretch of road, and it was his turn to feel a sense of deja-vu. He swallowed hard, trying to push down that last horrible ride to the hospital. An unexpected surge of emotion suddenly flooded him, and tears stung his eyes.

Charlie looked at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

Don wiped his face impatiently with his hand, and struggled for control. "Yeah," he said abruptly, huskily. He stared forward at the road, his jaw working. Charlie watched him silently for a moment; then looked forward at the road ahead.

At the hospital, the staff insisted that Charlie sit in a wheelchair. As they wheeled him down the corridor, a doctor came through the hall to greet them. He was smiling, but his eyes were concerned. "You again!" he exclaimed. Charlie, taken aback, looked up at Don.

Don smiled tightly, still trying to keep a rein on his emotions. "Charlie, this is Dr. Frist. He was the first doctor to treat you – before." He finished lamely; he couldn't bear to think of Charlie's first visit here.

Charlie took the doctor's hand, murmuring a greeting. So many people knew him; people that he didn't even recognize. It was a disconcerting feeling.

Two hours, several stitches and a few X-rays later, Charlie and Don were sitting in the examination waiting for Dr. Frist to return. While they waited for the X-rays to come back, Sheriff Hudson had taken Charlie's statement, and then had gone into the waiting area to finish with Don.

When they were done, Don ran out to the SUV to get clean shirts for both himself and his brother. At the door to the examination room he paused, as a sudden memory came back to him- a memory of him standing there, helplessly, after they had wheeled Charlie in the first time. He could see his brother, his raw and bloody neck, gasping weakly for air, and the image was so vivid he felt a rising tide of panic. Unreasonable fear took hold, and he burst into the room; catching his breath in relief as he saw Charlie sitting there, with a questioning look on his face. He was shirtless, they had put his left arm in a clean sling, and Don could see the black row of stitches in his side.

"Got you a shirt," Don said briskly, trying to cover his momentary panic. Charlie nodded, and Don sat, watching him closely for – '_for what?'_ he asked himself. He kept looking for signs of shock, fearing that Charlie would go into some kind of a mental relapse, and so he searched his brother's face, expecting the return of the withdrawal, of the haunted look that had so recently begun to recede. His brother did look somber, and a slight furrow of pain lined his brow, but he seemed relatively calm. Don, for his part, was having a hard time shaking his memories. _'I think he's taking this better than I am,'_ he thought.

His thoughts were interrupted as Frist bustled into the room and slid some X-rays into a holder on the wall. "Well, you do have a couple of cracked ribs on the right side. They are not nearly as serious as what you had on your left side, but they will be sore. I need to put a dressing over your stitches- you will need to keep the wounds dry. The rib injury and your cuts are the extent of it." He glanced at Don. "I can admit him for observation tonight, if you wish."

"No," said Charlie, more sharply than he intended to. He had had enough of hospitals. "No thank you," he added more gently, but firmly.

Don frowned, looking hard at his brother's face. "Are you sure?"

"Very," said Charlie. He looked at Dr. Frist, guiltily. "No offense. I know what you did for me before –,"

"No offense taken," interjected Frist, smiling.

"and I want to say thank you," Charlie continued, "but I'd rather not spend another night in a hospital."

"That's a perfectly normal reaction. Sit up," said Frist, as he applied the dressing to wound in Charlie's torso. Charlie winced. Frist shook his head as he saw Charlie's ribs protrude. "There are two ways you can thank me. The first is, don't come back."

Charlie and Don looked at each other, not sure how to respond. Frist stepped back to admire his handiwork, and Charlie looked at him uncertainly. When Frist didn't continue, Charlie asked, "And the second?"

"Oh, the second," said Frist. "For God's sake, kid, get yourself a sandwich." Charlie stared at him with his mouth open, then at Don, and then the corner of his mouth started to turn up in a grin. Don grinned back, his mood suddenly lightening, as he watched his brother smile for the first time in days.

A short time later, they were in Quartz Mountain at an establishment called Jimmy's, which came recommended by Frist as a good place to get that sandwich. The diner was closed by that time of night, and Jimmy's, the local bar, took over as the social spot. Word had already gotten around town about what had happened earlier in the evening, and the place was packed with townspeople, eager to meet Charlie. Don had gotten up from the table to circulate around the room and shake hands with the volunteers, who greeted him with hearty handshakes and slaps on the back. Many of them stopped by to meet Charlie, but they had a hard time getting through the cluster of women around the table, who were laughing, flirting and catering to Charlie's every whim.

Charlie sat there, alternating between flattered and embarrassed, and consistently blushing, as he took in the room and the crowd. His burger was nearly untouched on his plate; not because of lack of appetite, but because he never got a chance to take a bite between well-wishers. He looked around, feeling very humble and quite overwhelmed as the magnitude of the effort these people had made on his behalf began to hit home. His injuries were beginning to throb, and suddenly he felt tired, and although grateful to all of them, a bit claustrophobic. He stared down at his plate, taking deep breaths, and watched his burger with detached interest, as it seemed to expand and contract on his plate with each breath.

"Charlie, are you okay?" Charlie looked up; Don had materialized at his side, a look of concern on his face.

"Yeah," said Charlie uncertainly, "It's just – just a little noisy in here."

"Okay," said Don. He waded through the crowd and came back with two Styrofoam containers, and began loading their dinners into them. "Come on, we'll finish this back at the hotel. You've had enough for one day." Somehow they managed to make their way through the crowd, Charlie enduring painful hugs from what seemed like every woman in the county, in spite of Don blocking for him. Somewhere along the line, someone handed Don a six pack of beer, and he juggled food, beer and the crowd, as they finally spilled from the doorway with some of the throng behind them. Claustrophobia was setting in for real, and Charlie was gasping for air at this point, as Don steered him toward the vehicle, smiling and tossing firm "Good-byes and thank you's" over his shoulder.

By the time they got to the hotel, Charlie's breathing had slowed, but he still felt a little shaky. The room had two double beds, and Charlie sank gratefully down on the floor between them, his back against one of them, and closed his eyes. Don watched him for a moment; then said, "Do you want to lie down?"

Charlie opened his eyes. "No, I'm fine. It just feels better to lean back against something." He frowned. "I guess we missed the O'Neills."

"Jenny knows what happened, she heard the – commotion, and I guess one of the deputies drove up to let her know what was going on. I called her from the hospital. She invited us out for breakfast tomorrow instead, if you're up for it."

"Oh, okay, good," said Charlie, although at the moment, the thought of meeting yet someone else that he didn't know, but knew him, was overwhelming. His eyes fell on the six pack in Don's hand. "Can I have one of those?"

"Sure." Don was slightly surprised; Charlie didn't drink much, but Don figured that Charlie thought it might help him relax. He sat down on the floor with his back against the opposite bed, and set down their containers. He opened a beer and handed it to Charlie, then opened one for himself.

Don wasn't sure how it happened. It started with Charlie's comment about all of the people involved in the search, and Don, while trying to list them all - his team, Merrick, Tompkins, Hudson, the O'Neills, the townspeople - somehow just kept talking. Perhaps it was the beer that loosened Don up, or the emotion generated by the events of the day, but the story poured out of him, impulsively, with a life of its own. They talked for two hours, or rather Don talked and Charlie listened, Don thought later, between bites of their sandwiches and drinks of beer.

Don took a drink, and it grew quiet. Charlie looked down at the floor, brooding, for a moment. He looked up, suddenly serious, his eyes dark. "I know this is wrong – no human being should ever say this about another one – but – I'm glad he's dead."

Don's eyes, dark and unreadable, held his brother's. "So am I," he said quietly, as a look of understanding passed between them. He glanced at the clock, noting the time with a start. "Come on – you need to get some rest."

Don helped his brother get situated, but it wasn't until after he laid down that he realized that Charlie hadn't taken a sleeping pill. It probably wasn't a good idea with the beer, anyway, he thought. Betting on the fact that Charlie was in for nightmares and a restless night, he fell asleep, with a mental note to listen for his brother.

Instead it was the alarm that woke him. Charlie was twisted in an odd position on his back, with the pillow over his head, not moving, even when Don called his name. Suddenly afraid, Don jumped up and snatched the pillow from his brother's face.

"What are you doing?" groaned Charlie groggily, laying his hand over his eyes.

Don waited for his heart to stop pounding, and eyed Charlie suspiciously. "Did you take a sleeping pill last night?"

Charlie's eyes popped open, and he stared at Don for a minute. "No," he said slowly, in wonder. "I didn't wake up all night. I didn't even do my self-hypnosis."

Don grinned. "You need to drink beer more often."

"I hate beer."

"Then what did you drink it for?"

"It seemed like the thing to do at the time." Charlie grinned back at Don, and then grimaced, as he tried to push himself up. He felt like he had been run over by a truck.

Don leaned over and helped him up, and looked at his brother's hair. "You'd better get a shower. You don't want to scare the little kids."

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A little over an hour later, they were at the O'Neills. Jenny O'Neill had welcomed them warmly with a hug, and thrust steaming mugs of coffee into their hands while she finished breakfast.

"The boys are outside already," she said, pulling an egg casserole out of the oven.

"Jacob and Joey, right?" asked Charlie. The casserole smelled wonderful, and his stomach growled.

"Yes, Jacob is the older one – he's eleven, and Joey is six."

"Five years apart – so are we," smiled Charlie.

"Oh, they are best buddies, just inseparable," enthused Jenny. "But I'm sure you were at that age, too." She paused at the looks on their faces. Don stood with his mouth open, as if searching for words, and Charlie sent him a sad smile. '_What did I say?'_ wondered Jenny.

Just then the boys burst in, out of breath and smelling like the outdoors. Joey stopped in front of Charlie, his eyes huge. "Are you the dead guy?" he asked, looking at Charlie's sling.

"Joey!" exclaimed Jacob.

Charlie's mouth dropped open at the question; then he smiled. "Rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated," he said quietly to no one in particular. He squatted down in front of Joey and looked into his eyes.

"I was almost dead," he said. "But you saved me." Joey's face split into a sudden grin, and he twisted both hands together, hiding his face behind them. Charlie looked up at Jacob, and held out his hand, "Thank you Jacob. I owe you my life." Jacob took his hand and shook it, grinning widely.

Joey looked up at his mother, who was smiling proudly, her eyes glistening with tears. "Mommy, can we eat now?"

After breakfast, which Don had to admit, rivaled his father's, they stepped outside, and Charlie said to the boys, "Here, I have something for you." He handed them each a small electronic game. "This is called Minesweeper. I like to play this myself." Charlie turned on a game and gave Jacob a quick demo. "Maybe you can teach your little brother."

"Sweet," said Jacob, instantly absorbed.

Charlie turned toward Jenny and handed her an envelope. "This is for the boys, too."

She glanced inside and paled, and said, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly take this."

"Please," said Charlie. "It would mean a lot to me. Put it away for college." She paused, and then nodded, eyes wide.

"C'mere," Joey said, grabbing Charlie's good hand. "Watch how fast I can run." He pulled Charlie out to the lawn, and started running circles around him.

Don looked at Jacob. "I have something for you, too." He squatted down, and pulled out a leather case, flipping it open to reveal a replica of an FBI badge. "You're a hero now – and an official FBI representative."

Jacob took it reverently. "Wow," he breathed, "thank you."

Don looked into his eyes. "I know that you know how important little brothers are. Thank you for saving mine. Did you get a chance to tell your father about this?"

Jacob nodded. "We wrote him a letter, and he called me on the phone. He usually doesn't get to call us."

"He must be very proud of you." Jacob nodded, smiling shyly. Don smiled back. "We all are." Don rose, and extended his hand with formality. "Thank you, Agent O'Neill."

Jacob shook it solemnly. "You're welcome, sir." Tears were now coming from Jenny's eyes in earnest, and she wiped them away, smiling.

They turned to look at Charlie, standing in the yard, and Joey, who was still running rings around him. Suddenly Joey stopped, facing Charlie, and charged.

"Joey, no!" yelled Jenny and Jacob together.

Charlie glanced up at them, his attention diverted, and Joey hit him like a miniature freight train, knocking him sprawling.

"Oh, my God, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Jenny, glancing at Don's anxious face as they jumped down the porch steps.

"It's okay," said Don, his eyes riveted on Charlie as they ran towards him, "It's just that he's not healed yet -,"

"He loves to tackle people," gasped Jenny, trying to explain and keep up with Don – vain attempts on both counts.

"He only does it to people he likes," added Jacob, as they arrived at Charlie's side, panting.

Charlie sat stunned, looking at Joey, who stood over him, wide eyed, and suddenly began to laugh. Taking that as an invitation, Joey pounced, grinning. "Oof!" exclaimed Charlie, falling backward as Joey kneed him in the ribs, and they both dissolved in a helpless fit of laughter, rolling on the ground. Don's watched his brother trying to fend off a giggling Joey, shoulders shaking, laughing so hard his that tears came to his eyes. He began to smile himself, and in the sunshine, felt the shadows dissolve.

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Don glanced at Charlie, who was staring pensively out the passenger side window. They had been on the road for an hour; Charlie had gotten in the SUV with a smile on his face, which faded during the course of the hour and was slowly replaced by something more thoughtful.

"You have grass in your hair."

"What?" said Charlie, coming out of his reverie.

Don looked at him and smiled at the confusion on his face. "You have grass in your hair."

"Oh." Charlie smiled sheepishly, plucking at his hair. He looked at Don, still smiling. "It was a great trip."

Don looked at him incredulously. "Charlie, you almost got killed."

"Oh, that – I don't mean that," said Charlie. "I – I meant you and me…" he trailed off, looking in his brother's face for a response.

"Yeah," said Don softly, suddenly serious. "It was good." He was seized abruptly by emotion and he stared ahead at the highway, trying to control it.

Charlie stared at him uncertainly, trying to read his face. They had come so far in the past few days - surely Don felt it too. He had a sudden fear in his gut. He had felt so close to his brother on the trip, and in the days before, when Don was at the house. Now they were going back to normal life. Would what they had found disappear with the return to routine?

He looked away, out the window, then back at Don. "What Jenny said about her boys being close – I know we didn't have that. But I've kind of been feeling like we were getting there, before this - happened."

Don looked at him, his expression softening. "Charlie, you don't think that what we just went through brought us closer together?"

"Yeah, yeah, I do. It's just that, well, this was an anomaly – something out of the ordinary. I was talking about how we were doing before it happened."

He swallowed and looked earnestly at Don. "Look, I know we don't always get each other, and I know a lot of it is me – like the way I busted into your meeting that morning after you told me not to come – I don't always get it right. I'm sorry -,"

"Charlie," Don interrupted. There was something unreadable in his eyes. "That was a two-way street. I never should have yelled at you like that in front of everyone, or even not in front of everyone. I'm the one who should be sorry."

Charlie stared at him for a moment; then took a deep breath. "Well, anyway, I was thinking, in spite of stuff like that, we were doing better, you know -," he broke off and looked out through the windshield. The next words were so quiet, Don could barely hear them. "I was just, ah, just wondering if you thought so too."

Don glanced sideways at his brother's profile, taking in the look of tension on his face. "Yeah, Buddy, I do," said Don, a smile softening his own face. "Yeah, definitely."

Charlie looked up quickly, catching Don's smile, and his face lit up with one of his own, as tears of relief sprang into his eyes. He turned away hastily toward the windshield again, trying to neutralize his expression, and failing miserably. _"Okay, you look like an idiot. Wipe that silly grin off your face.'_ He couldn't help himself. Still smiling, still looking at the highway, Charlie said, "Okay. Okay. We're good then."

Don grinned, and softly shook his head. "Yeah, Buddy, we're good." Silence fell, fraught with emotion. Don cleared his throat. "So why don't you tell me about the money laundering thing."

"Really?" said Charlie, brightening.

"Yeah, hit me with it."

"Okay, it _was_ pretty cool. You see, the flows I had mapped and the algorithm I developed all assumed a single large center of activity…."

Don watched his brother's animated face and gestures as he launched into a description of his algorithm. '_What was I thinking?'_ Don chided himself. '_I'm stuck in the car with him for hours, and I ask him to explain a math problem to me?' _He smiled to himself, knowing there was nowhere on earth he would rather be, and nodded and listened, and smiled again, as they made their way home.

---------------------------Finis-----------------------------------------------------------------

_Perhaps it was the beer that loosened Don up, or the emotion generated by the events of the day, but the story poured out of him, impulsively, with a life of its own._


End file.
